IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 

mm. 

II 

1.25 

g  m 
1.4 

IM 

Z2 
2.0 


1.8 


1.6 


om 


em 


^  W  J^* 


>  ^ 


^^ 


^J^ 


<^ 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


^»  °^\ 


"O^.K^^         ^^\^>^ 


V 


'^^ 


:23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  *.o  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  mctilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-etre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  una 
modification  dans  la  m^thode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiques  ci-dessous. 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 


D 


Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagee 


□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag^es 


□ 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul^e 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pelliculees 

Q /Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d^color^es,  tachet^es  ou  piquees 


□    Coloured  maps/ 
Cartes  g^ographiques  en  couleur 


□Pages  detached/ 
Pages  detachees 


n 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


V 


Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


n 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


□    Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Qudlite  inegale  de  r>mpression 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 


D 


Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Cornprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 


B 


D 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serree  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int^rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout6es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  poss'ble,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  film^es. 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  parti^llement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filrn^es  d  nnjveau  de  facon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


□ 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires; 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

SOX 

1 

/ 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


rWvW 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  ck  la 
gdndrositd  de: 

Bibliothdque  Rationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearini^  here  are  the  best  quaiity 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t§  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet^  de  l'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sont  film^s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmds  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  tprminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — *►  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apraraitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — »>signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  toe  large  to  be 
entirsiy  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  §tre 
film6s  i  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

By   JVay  of  the 
i^    li^ilderness 


^1 

■  ^ 


Drini  II  hy  VhaiMte  Hardiiuj. 


WAVM'     AND    HMD. 
"  Now  can't  I  have  a  keepsake  r  "    he  said. 


{See  page  97.) 


■' .  i' 


■-Hi.: 


''f.  '  - 


■X'-' 


■'(>:    ■ . 


■'■',  ;•'*.*: 


,•■,■  i 


;^^ 


1 

\1 


■i'l;t|*'':A:- 


] 


,V.'t'.  ; 


::-.>;^ 


BY   WAY  of  The 
WILDERNESS  ^ 


By  ''PANST''  (MRS.  G.  R.  ALDEN) 
And    MRS.   C.    M.    LIVINGSIONE 

4  ILLUSTRJITED  1 


■% 


^  BOSTON  ^ 

LOTHROP   PUBLISHING    COMPANY 


Entered  accoi-diii},'  to  Act  of  the  Parliament  of  Canada,  in  the  year  one 
thousand  nine  hundred,  h\  William  IIrioos,  at  the  Department  of 
Agriculture,  Ottawa. 


1 


1 

Contents. 

j           Chapter 
I. 

Revelations  .          ,          .          ,          , 

Page 
9 

II. 

He  meant  to  be  Good     , 

.          24 

I                   III. 

"If  only        "       . 

•       37 

r  one 

IV. 

A  Crisis 

•       50 

nt  of 

V. 

Apologies     . 

.       65 

\               VI. 

Enid   . 

.       78 

VII. 

A  Fateful  Letter     . 

.       92 

•;         VIII. 

The  "Upper  Deestrict" 

106 

IX. 

"I  might  be  a  Fool"     . 

.      119 

X. 

"  Wayne  Lorimer  Pierson '*     . 

.      132 

XI. 

**Bethune  Breckenridge  Armitage"  . 

144 

XII. 

The  Way  Out 

157 

XIII. 

Progress,  and  Problems   .          .          .          , 

172 

■             XIV. 

"Sarah" 

186 

■i         XV. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  " 

200 

j.            XVI. 

A  Counterfeiter's  State  of  Mind 

215 

XVII. 

Educating  a  Conscience  .          .          . 

229 

XVIII. 

Conscience  Salve  .          .          .          ,          , 

242 

XIX. 

"  Who  is  Sarah  Jane  ?  "  . 

256 

i      XX. 

The  Demands  of  Decenc 

y       .         .         . 

271 

Contents. 


HI 


! 


Chapter 

XXI.  Whither  ?  . 

XXII.  A  Land  not  Inhabited  . 

XXIII.  *'I  will  fear  no  Evil" 

XXIV.  A  Weary  Way    . 
XXV.  "All  that  is  left  of  him" 

XXVI.  By  the  Way  of  Peace  . 

XXVII.  "  The  Lord  thy  God  hath  led  thee  " 

XXVIII.  **  By  a  way  that  they  know  not"  . 


Page 
286 

1 
t 

299 

312 

325 

339 

353 

366 

380 


Page 
286 

299 
325 

339 

353 
366 

380 


^    Jf^ay   of  the 
^  J{^ilder?iess 


i  I 


By  Way  of  the 
Wilderness. 


L 

Revelations, 

IT  was   in   the  dawn  of  a  winter  morning 
that  Wayne  Pierson  was  awakened  by  a 
kiss  softly  laid  upon   his  forehead.     He 
opened  his  eyes  to  see  his  father,  dressed 
in  a  new  gray  suit,  valise  in  hand,  bending  over 
him. 

"Why,  father^  are  you  going  away  ? "  Wayne 
asked,  wide  awake  in  an  inst-ant. 

•'  Oh,  \  didn't  mean  to  waken  you,  my  boy, 
but  I  wanted  to  give  you  a  good-by  kiss.  I 
am  going  on  a  little  journey  that  I  have  no 
time  to  tell  you  about.  Aunt  Crete  will  ex- 
plain. I  trust  you,  Wayne,  to  be  a  good  brave 
boy,  and  believe  that  your  father  thinks  he  is 
acting  for  the  best  good  of  all  concerned,  how- 
ever it  may  seem  to  you.     Good-by." 

9 


By    U^ay  of  the    JViUerness. 


The  father  stooped  and  kissed  his  boy  again, 
while  Wayne  clasped  both  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  held  him  close. 

The  boy  lay  still  for  a  few  minutes  after  his 
father  had  left  him,  thinking  over  those  words 
about  trusting  him.  Of  course,  he  would  always 
believe  that  his  father  did  just  right. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  father 
thought  I  acted  vexed  yesterday  when  he 
wouldn't  let  me  go  sailing;  I  wish  I  had  said 
that  I  wasn't,  and  that  he's  all  right  every 
time.  I  can't  think  why  he  told  me  to  be 
brave,  just  now.  Is  anything  going  to  happen 
to  me,  1  wonder  ?  "  Whereupon  he  bethought 
himself  to  get  up  and  ask  Aunt  Crete  for  an 
explanation. 

Just  then  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  picture  hanging 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  He  had  not  noticed 
it  the  night  before.  He  remembered  now  that 
when  he  went  to  bed  the  moon  shone  into  his 
room  so  brightly  that  he  had  not  lighted  the 
gas.  It  was  a  full-size  head  done  in  water 
colors.  So  lifelike  that  the  blue  eyes  and 
lovely  mouth  seemed  to  smile  down  at  the 
boy,  who  gave  it  a  long,  worshipful  look,  won- 
dering greatly,  the  while,  why  it  had  been  taken 
from  the  library.  It  was  a  delight  to  have  it 
in  his  room,  but  why  had  it  been  given  to  him.'* 
His  father  liked  that  picture  better  than  any  of 
the  others.  Tears  came  into  the  boy's  eyes  as 
lo 


Revelations. 


an 


|im? 
of 
bs  as 


'S^' 


1 


he  gazed,  and  thought  what  a  heaven  of  joy  it 
would  be  if  his  mother  had  indeed  come  into 
his  room  once  more  —  from  that  long  journey 
whence,  he  well  knew,  there  is  no  returning. 
Only  a  little  over  a  year  since  she  went  away, 
his  beautiful  mother. 

It  seemed  long  ago  in  one  sense,  yet  her 
words  and  tones  and  looks  were  vivid  as  ever. 
He  turned  away  suddenly  and  made  a  rush  for 
the  dining  room. 

"  Aunt  Crete,  where  has  father  gone,  and 
when  will   he  be  back  ? " 

Miss  Lucretia  Pierson,  Mr.  Pierson's  elder 
sister,  who  had  guided  his  household  since  his 
wife's  death,  turned  a  pair  of  keen  gray  eyes 
upon  her  nephew,  and  studied  his  face  for  a 
moment,  to  discover  if  she  could  whether 
the  boy  had  any  suspicions  that  this  was  a 
journey  out  of  the  common  order,  before  she 
answered. 

"  Your  father  has  gone  to  Massachusetts  on 
important  business ;  and  I  think  he  expects  to 
be  gone  two  or  three  weeks." 

"  So  long !  "  and  Wayne's  eager  face  shad- 
owed. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "  father 
said  you  would  tell  me  all  about  it ;  that  he 
hadn't  time.     What  is  there  to  tell  ?  " 

"  Wait  till  after  breakfast,"  Aunt  Crete  said, 
willing  to  postpone  her  communications  as  long 

II 


u 


By    Ji^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

as  possible.  "  We  can't  talk  over  family  mat- 
ters very  well  while  Ann  is  coming  and  going 
with  the  waffles." 

No  sooner  was  breakfast  over  than  Aunt  Crete 
was  hurried  to  the  library  by  her  impatient 
nephew,  whose  eyes  were  at  once  observant 
of  certain  changes  in  the  room,  especially  that 
a  fine  oil  painting  of  a  sunset  scene  hung  in 
the  place  of  his  mother's  picture. 

"  Aunt  Crete,  what  does  this  mean  ?  Why 
was  my  mother's  picture  taken  from  here  ?  It 
was  the  prettiest  picture  in  the  room."  The 
boy's  tone  expressed  grief  and  a  suggestion  of 
indignation. 

"  Well,"  began  Aunt  Crete,  after  an  aggra- 
vatingly  long  pause,  "  that's  a  part  of  the  whole 
story."  Then  she  added  grimly,  half  to  her- 
self, "  I  do  wish  your  father  would  tell  his  own 
secrets,  and  not  leave  it  for  me  to  do." 

"  Secrets  !  I  like  secrets  ;  go  on  !  tell  quick, 
please."     Wayne  was  in  a  quiver  of  excitement. 

Aunt  Crete's  hair  was  sprinkled  with  gray, 
and  she  had  passed  through  many  trying  ex- 
periences, but  this  was  one  of  the  "  hard  spots," 
needing  more  tact  and  wisdom  than  she  pos- 
sessed. She  drew  the  boy  down  beside  her  on  the 
couch,  and  began  in  a  voice  that  sounded  strange 
even  to  herself 

"  Wayne,  did  you  never  guess,  not  one  little 
bit,  that  changes  are  coming  to  this  house  ?  " 
12 


Revelations. 


ick, 
;nt. 

•ay, 
ex- 

Its," 

lOS- 

the 
|nge 

ttle 


"  Changes  ?  What  can  you  mean,  Aunt 
Crete  ?  The  very  worst  thing  that  could 
happen  to  this  house  has  come  already.  You 
and  father  are  not  going  to  die,  too,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Did  it  never  enter  my  boy's  mind  that  he 
might,  sometime,  have  a  new  mother  ?  " 

"  A  new  mother  !  Nobody  can  have  but  one 
real  mother.  Do  you  mean  a  j'/<?/)mother?  "  — 
with  ominous  emphasis  on  that  word  "  step." 
"  Aunt  Crete,  you  must  be  joking.  Tell  me 
the  whole  truth  right  out  in  plain  words." 

"  Well,  then,  here  it  is.  Your  father  is  going 
to  marry  a  Mrs.  Hamilton  of  Boston.  He 
has  gone  there  now,  for  that  purpose ;  he  will 
bring  her  home  with  him,  and  she  will  be  your 
new  mother —  or  j/^/)mother." 

There  it  was,  plain  and  hard.  Aunt  Crete's 
soul  writhed  in  pain  for  the  boy,  though  she 
gave  no  outward  sign.  If  only  he  were  one 
of  those  careless  rollicking  fellows  who  would 
forget  all  about  it  in  ten  minutes,  and  bound 
away  with  a  laugh  and  a  whistle  !  but  he  was 
not.  He  would  brood  over  it  in  solitude ;  his 
intense  nature  would  be  stirred  to  its  depths, 
and  he  might  become  rebellious,  or  morbid  and 
gloomy.  The  boy's  face  had  grown  white  as 
his  aunt  talked,  and  his  eyes  glowed  with 
something  like  anger  as  he  asked  :  — 

"Did  —  did  my  father  take  my  mother's 
picture  out  of  the  library  ?  " 

13 


.!, 


By    TJ^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

"No,"  Aunt  Crete  assured  him,  "  I  did  that; 
I  thought  you  would  Hke  it  to  be  in  your  room 
after  this." 

"  A  stepmother  !  "  the  boy  groaned,  as  if  in 
that  word  he  had  sounded  the  depths  of  all 
misery.  "  Somebody  else  in  mother's  place  ! 
How  could  father  do  it  ?  I  can't !  I  won't 
stand  it !     I  won  1 1  " 

And  then  this  boy,  with  the  instincts  of  a 
man,  rushed  away  to  his  room  ;  he  must  be 
alone  with  his  sorrow  and  his  anger.  It  is 
pitiful  to  see  boyish  lips  compressed,  and  youth- 
ful brows  drawn  with  mental  pain.  Aunt  Crete 
suffered  with  this  boy.  She  said  to  herself,  as 
he  dashed  away  :  — 

"  Yes,  I've  made  a  mess  of  it !  I  knew  I 
would.  It  does  seem  a  strange  state  of  things, 
I  declare.  The  fact  is,  it  is  downright  cruelty 
to  that  child,  and  nothing  else.  Men  are 
queer !  " 

Then  Aunt  Crete  fell  to  congratulating  her- 
self that  she  was  as  "  the  angels  in  heaven," 
knowing  nothing,  by  personal  experience,  of 
this  most  mysterious  troublous  ordinance  — 
marriage. 

Wayne  had  believed  himself  to  be  getting 
too  old  to  cry  ;  but  once  in  his  room,  hot  tears 
and  fierce  sobs  had  their  way. 

So  that  was  what  his  father  had  meant  when 
he  spoke  to  him  about  being  brave !    Certainly 


Revelations. 


I 

lelty 
are 


:ting 
tears 

^hen 
linly 


he  did  need  courage  to  face  such  an  awful 
trial.  The  bitterest  drop  in  his  cup  was  the 
feeling  that"  his  mother  was  forgotten.  Some- 
body else  was  to  come  into  that  house,  and  live 
in  her  room  and  use  her  things  !  And  father 
was  willing  to  have  ev  n  mother's  picture  put 
out  of  his  sight !  He  must  have  known  about 
it,  and  bought  that  handsome  new  one  to  take 
its  place.  It  was  dreadful  to  be  angry  with 
father,  but  he  was  !  The  more  the  poor  boy 
thought  about  it,  the  fiercer  his  anger  burned. 
He  recalled  his  father's  words  that  morning. 
Was  it  only  that  morning?  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  heard  the  news  weeks  ago  — 
"  Believe  that  your  father  thinks  he  is  acting 
for  the  best  good  of  all  concerned." 

How  could  it  be  possible  that  this  horrible 
thing  about  to  happen  could  be  for  the  good 
of  anybody  in  that  house  .^ 

"I  won't  stand  it!  I'll  go  away,  some- 
where ! "  he  declared  in  frenzy,  as  he  got  up 
and  paced  the  floor  after  the  manner  of  an 
excited  man.  "  I  '11  pack  my  trunk  this  minute 
and  be  off  before  they  can  get  here." 

He  rushed  toward  the  hall  door.  Intent 
upon  bringing  his  trunk  at  once  from  the  attic, 
but  as  he  went,  something  stopped  him.  It 
was  what  had  often  checked  him  before,  —  his 


)th 


motner  s  e 


yes. 


When  she  was  living,  it  had 


often  needed  but  a  look  from  her  to  set  right 


1) 


By    JVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

his  wayward  spirit.  It  seemed  to  the  boy  that 
she  beckoned  him  now,  to  stop ;  he  fancied  he 
could  hear  her  voice  :  — 

"  Take  care,  mother's  boy  !  keep  the  reins 
steady.  Don't  let  that  temper  of  yours  run 
away  with  you.     Try  to  bear  it  patiently." 

"  Oh,  mother  !  mother  !  "  he  broke  into  a 
passionate  cry,  "I  can't,  I  cant  I  It  will  kill 
me.     Oh,  if  I  only  could  die  !  " 

He  meant  it,  this  poor  boy,  just  as  much  as 
we  older  ones,  when  with  every  nerve  tense 
with  anger  or  sorrow  we  wish  ourselves  dead. 
Yet  as  he  looked  into  those  eyes  and  longed 
for  his  mother's  presence,  his  fierce  mood 
insensibly  softened.  On  the  bureau  near 
where  he  stood  was  a  box  where  he  treasured 
little  keepsakes  of  his  mother.  As  he  opened 
it  now,  and  brought  them  out,  tears  rained 
over  his  fice.  There  was  a  pair  of  light 
gloves  that  she  had  last  worn,  shaped  to  her 
hands ;  how  well  he  remembered  those  hands, 
small  and  white  and  plump.  A  fine  lace- 
edged  handkerchief  with  a  faint  violet  odor 
clinging  to  it,  and  a  light  blue  satin  ribbon 
that  she  used  to  wear  about  her  neck.  They 
brought  viv^idly  before  him  the  fair  sweet 
mother  with  loving  eyes.  He  had  other 
mementoes  of  her ;  costly  ones,  of  gold,  and 
silver,  and  precious  stones,  but  none  of  them 
brought  her  warm  tender  presence,  like  those 

i6 


I 

1 

41 


Revelations. 


which  the  imaginative  boy  had  secured  for  his 
own. 

When  Aunt  Crete  came  In  search  of  her 
boy,  he  was  lying  on  the  lounge,  asleep,  and 
the  hand  which  pillowed  his  cheek  held  his 
mother's  handkerchief  and  gloves. 

"Sleeping  for  sorrow!"  Aunt  Crete  mur- 
mured, and  she  went  out  softly. 

In  the  library  that  evening  the  boy  sat  alone 
in  the  twilight,  still  engaged  in  puzzling  his 
young  brain  over  life  and  its  mysteries.  It 
was  there  that  his  aunt  found  him,  and  he  be- 
gan at  once :  — 

"  Aunt  Crete,  I  wish  you  would  explain  one 
thing  to  me.  Why  isn't  it  just  as  hard  for 
father  to  put  somebody  else  into  mother's 
place  as  it  is  for  me }  " 

Aunt  Crete  was  silent  for  a  whole  minute. 
The  truth  was,  the  same  perplexing  question 
had  come  to  her,  but  she  had  dismissed  it  as 
belonging  to  the  mysteries  of  that  mystic  sac- 
rament—  marriage,  of  which  she  could  not  be 
supposed  to  have  knowledge.  How  should 
she  be  able  to  explain  to  the  boy  ? 

At  last  she  said :  "  My  dear  boy,  don't  you 
know  there  are  a  good  many  things  that 
puzzle  wiser  heads  than  yours  ?  When  you 
get  to  be  a  great  scientist,  try  to  unravel  some 
of  these  knotty  points.  Perhaps  your  father 
would  say  that  the  fact  of  his  having  been  very 

17 


■I 

1? 


fl 


I 


By    ff^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

happy  with  your  mother,  was  an  excellent 
reason  for  marrying  again  :  because  he  missed 
such  companionship,  and  was  unhappy  and 
desolate  without  it." 

"  But  he  had  us ;  why  wasn't  that  enough  ? 
O  Aunt  Crete,  you  will  always  live  here, 
won't  you  ? " 

He  asked  the  question  eagerly,  and  hung 
upon  her  answer.  Here  was  another  "  hard 
spot."  It  seemed  impossible  to  tell  him  that 
she  must  go  away  as  soon  as  his  father  re- 
turned, but  it  had  to  be  done. 

He  bore  it  better  than  she  had  feared,  the 
greater  trouble  having  dulled  his  heart  to  all 
lesser  ones ;  but  he  murmured  desolately  that 
he  could  never  get  on  without  her,  and  begged 
her  to  change  her  mind  and  stay. 

"  No,"  she  said  firmly,  "  I  shall  not  be  ex- 
pected to  stay.  This  is  not  my  home,  you 
know  ;  I  only  came  because  your  father  needed 
me,  and  he  will  not  need  me  any  more." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  not  need  me  any  more, 
either,"  said  Wayne,  with  slow  bitterness ;  "  I 
wish  I  could  go  away.  I'll  tell  you  what, 
Aunt  Crete,  I'll  come  and  live  with  you ! 
Why,  we  can  have  jolly  times  !  " 

Boy-like,  for  the  moment  he  forgot  his 
wretchedness,  and  his  face  lighted  with  a  new 
hope.  Aunt  Crete's  heart  went  out  with  a  great 
longing  to  the  dear  boy  whose  eyes  looked  so 

i8 


i 


Revelations. 


ted 

I 

lat, 
.u! 

his 
ew 

so 


wistfully  into  hers.  She  would  have  asked  no 
greater  joy  in  life  than  to  have  been  able  to 
take  him  to  her  heart  and  home ;  but  she  must 
not  feed  him  upon  false  hopes,  and  her  tone 
told  nothing   of  her  heart. 

"  There  are  several  reasons  whv  we  can't  do 
that.  In  the  first  place,  we  shouldn't  have 
anything  to  live  on  ;  I  haven't  much  in  the 
world  besides  the  old  house,  and  I  live  a  long 
way  from  any  good  school.  But  the  chief 
reason  is,  that  your  father  would  never  consent 
to  it.     He  wants  his  boy  with  him." 

*'  Does  he  ?  tf  he  cares  for  me,  why  does 
he  go  and  do  something  that  I  just  hate  and 
despise  !  " 

The  passionate  look  that  his  aunt  hated  to 
see,  came  into  his  face  again.  She  feared  a 
stormy  life  for  this  sensitive  highly  organized 
temperament. 

"  We  were  happy  together,"  continued  Wayne, 
"as  happy  as  we  could  be,  without  mother;  and 
now  it  \?  all  spoiled.  A  stranger  coming  in  her 
place,  and  you  gone  !  I  shall  get  into  all  sorts 
of  trouble,  I  know  I  shall.  She'll  want  me  to 
do  things  that  I  won't  do,  and  then  there'll  be 
trouble  with  father.  You  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand how  hard  it  is  going  to  be  for  me." 

How  little  he  guessed  what  depths  of  tender- 
ness were  hidden  behind  Aunt  Crete's  calm  face 
and  business-like  ways ;   neither  could  he  see 


By    fFay  of  the    JVilderness. 


the  tears  on  her  cheeks,  for  the  twiHght  had 
deepened  into  darkness  as  they  talked. 

"  Come  and  sit  here  by  me,"  she  said  pres- 
ently, "  I  want  to  give  you  a  little  lecture.  I 
can  do  it  better  in  the  dark;  then  if  you  look 
cross,  I  shall  not  know  it.  Wayne,  when  you 
were  on  the  banks  of  the  St.  Lawrence  last 
summer,  if  you  had  seen  a  boy  in  a  sail-boat 
steering  toward  the  rapids  as  fast  as  he  could 
go,  and  there  was  no  one  to  warn  him,  you 
would  surely  have  shouted  and  signalled  to  him 
that  he  was  in  danger,  wouldn't  you  ?  Now,  I 
see  whirlpools  ahead  for  you,  and  I'm  going  to 
warn  you.  Wavne,  dear,  one  need  not  go  over 
the  rapids  to  wreck  his  life. 

"One  of  your  dangers  is  selfishness  ;  you  are 
forgetting  that  there  is  anybody  but  yourself  to 
be  made  happy,  and  you  are  angry  with  your 
father,  questioning  his  rights,  and  even  his 
love  for  you  !  Then,  you  are  conjuring  up 
troubles  that  may  never  come,  and  cultivating 
a  wicked  prejudice  against  one  whom  you  have 
never  seen.  She  may  turn  out  to  be  the  best 
friend  you  have  in  the  world.  There's  one 
danger  for  you,  my  boy,  that  is  at  the  bottom 
of  all  the  others.  To  find  fault  with  what  God 
lets  come  to  you,  is  to  rebel  against  him.  He 
had  some  people  long  ag  >,  who  rebelled,  and 
because  of  it  they  had  to  spend  the  best  part 
of  their  lives  in  the  wilderness ;  there  was  no 
20 


s 
a 
c 

V 

s 

rr 
ai 


Revelations, 


other  way  to  bring  them  to  their  senses.  I  do 
hope,  Wayne,  that  your  life  will  not  have  to  go 
by  the  way  of  the  wilderness." 

"  I'm  in  it  this  minute,"  said  Wayne,  "just 
as  dark  and  ugly  a  piece  of  woods  as  can  be 
found." 

The  relations  between  Wayne  and  his  mother 
had  been  peculiar.  Being  the  only  child  he 
was  much  with  her,  and  in  consequence  grew 
wise  beyond  his  years.  The  fear  of  grieving 
her  had  been  his  strongest  motive  for  good 
conduct.  He  almost  literally  shared  every 
thought  with  her,  and  was  always  on  the  look- 
out to  shield  her  from  annoyance  or  danger. 

It  was  months  a^^er  her  death  before  the  boy 
could  open  his  heart  to  his  father.  There  was 
an  element  of  sternness  in  Mr.  Pierson's  char- 
acter. Wayne  obeyed  him  because  he  both 
honored  and  feared  him  ;  he  had  obeyed  his 
mother  because  it  was  his  delight  to  please  her. 

Of  late,  however,  a  strong  and  tender  bond 
had  grown  up  between  father  and  son.  Mr.  Pier- 
son  had  made  his  son  his  companion  in  walks 
and  drives  and  short  journeys,  and  there  had 
come  to  the  boy  a  proud  sense  of  comradeship 
which  had  charmed  him.  And  now,  behold,  a 
stranger  was  to  come  between  them  ! 

As  the  time  drew  near  when  the  bridal  party 
might  be  looked  for.  Aunt  Crete  grew  nervous 
and  excited.     She  had  not  fully  obeyed    her 

21 


«p 


lii 


,»tll 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

brother's  Instructions ;  there  was  something 
more  to  reveal  to  Wayne ;  something  from 
which  she  shranlc.  So  it  was  not  until  the 
afternoon  before  the  travellers  were  expected 
that  she  girded  herself  for  another  conflict. 
Wayne,  at  the  piano,  had  played  persistently 
for  nearly  an  hour;  he  had  gone  over  all  the 
tempestuous  pieces  in  his  repertoire,  his  nervous 
excitement  finding  vent  in  the  loudest  pedal, 
then  his  mood  suddenly  changed,  and  he  ran 
his  fingers  over  the  keys  in  improvised  minor 
strains.  Aunt  Crete  sat  in  a  shaded  corner  and 
watched  the  back  of  his  head.  It  was  a  beauti- 
ful head,  covered  with  waves  of  light  brown 
hair  ;  yet  she  noticed  that  its  pose  was  slightly 
proi.d  and  defiant,  whereat  she  sighed.  She 
sympathized  with  those  dirgelike  notes,  yet 
how  did  she  know,  after  all,  but  that  what  she 
had  to  tell  might  be  received  with  joy  ? 

At  last  the  piano  was  closed,  and  Wayne 
came  over  to  her. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said,  "  how  nice 
it  would  be  if  you  had  another  boy  here  to  visit 
with." 

"  Yes,"  said  Wayne,  "  two  boys  can  have 
better  times  than  one,  if  the  other  fellow  is  the 
right  sort." 

"  If  both  fellows  are  of  the  right  sort,  you 
mean,"  retorted  Aunt  Crete.  "  I'm  glad  you 
would  like  it,  because  it  looks  now  as  if  there 
22 


^Revelations. 

"'°"''^   ^^  two   bovs   in   fl,;     u  ~ 

one."  y'  '"  f'^'s  house,  instead  of 

,   "  What  !'■  said  Wayne     «  Ann.  r 
do  you  mean  ?  -     N,L  .v  ","^  *^''"^.  «'hat 

she  hurried  on.  "  '"''''  ''^  told;  and 

Mrl.'Ha^i,ron^h"'rsonT  "^Y"^''  y°— 
own  age,  and  he  wH  come  h "rtol"'  T ^  y°- 
O  Wayne,  I  do  hope  you  wM  h  k'  °^u'°""^- 
de^w.thoutanysfepCwIen.^'"--'^--"- 

brothers    suddefi  ^,  "''7''"''  '°  '^''^^  «4- 

Wayne   stood     ransfixed     h"   ""°    °"^'^    "f^- 

Crete's  fhce,  as  if  he  hid    ln%'\''   °"   ^unt 

speech.     Before  he  recntl  ^       '^f   P"^^'"  of 

"ng  and  guests  were  sh^t  '^'  ''^  ''°'"-''^" 

nooktr'K:%T-J;f-sew,3,,,^,^^ 

To  that  retreat  he  rushed  w.>h   V      "'^'^  °*"- 
P-ece  of  news,  like  ol^e  purs^,ed     '  '''"""'^''"g 


23 


I'' 


it 


II. 

He  meant  to  be   Good. 


TO  say  that  the  Pierson  home  was  in  a 
state  of  expectancy,  is  to  put  it  mildly. 
The  very  chairs,  as  they  stood  in  formal 
rows  against  the  walls,  told  that  some- 
thing unusual  was  about  to  happen.  Absolutely 
fleckless  cleanliness  and  propriety  were  observ- 
able everywhere ;  but  if  Aunt  Crete  had  really 
tried  to  banish  every  suggestion  of  a  home,  she 
could  not  have  succeeded  better.  She  had  done 
nothing  of  the  kind,  poor  woman,  but  had  made 
an  earnest  effort  to  accomplish  her  best,  albeit 
her  heart  felt  like  lead. 

She  was  at  this  moment  arrayed  in  her  old- 
fashioned  bristling  black  silk  with  a  garniture 
made  of  lace  and  ribbon  choked  about  her  neck. 
It  did  not  become  her,  and  she  had  been  heard 
to  declare  that  she  ne^  er  felt  at  home  in  it. 
Possibly  she  had  chosen  it  for  the  day  on  this 
very  account ;  certain  it  is  that  in  her  inmost 
heart  she  never  expected  to  feel  at  home  in  that 
house  again.  She  had  taken  her  seat  in  the 
parlor,  in  the  straightest  backed  chair  that  the 

24 


^ii- 


He  meant  to  be  Good. 


Id- 
ire 
:k. 
ird 


room  contained,  and  without  even  knitting  work 
to  keep  her  company.  This  also  was  a  conces- 
sion to  the  supposed  proprieties.  She  wanted 
to  greet  the  new  Mrs.  Pierson  in  the  most  re- 
spectable manner  possible. 

In  vain  did  she  try  to  pinion  the  son  of  the 
house  at  her  side.  As  a  rule  he  was  more  than 
willing  to  stay  with  Aunt  Crete,  and  liked 
nothing  better  than  one  of  her  grave,  old-fash- 
ioned stories  for  entertainment.  But  on  this 
day  he  declared  that  he  hated  the  parlor,  and 
did  not  want  to  change  his  trousers,  the  ones 
he  had  on  were  good  enough ;  he  had  worn 
them  to  the  minister's  house  the  night  before, 
and  he  guessed  the  i.iinister's  folks  were  better 
than  —  but  here  the  boy  stopped ;  no  names 
should  be  mentioned.  It  was  true  enough  that 
he  hated  the  pailor.  If  poor,  kind-hearted,  blun- 
dering Aunt  Crete  could  have  understood  it, 
every  nerve  in  the  sensitive  boy's  body  quivered 
with  the  pain  of  some  cruel  memory.  In  the 
parlor  he  could  see  nothing  but  his  mother's 
coffin  as  it  had  stood  in  solemn  state  half  buried 
in  flowers.  Could  he  stay  in  that  room  to  meet 
her  !  But  he  knev/  instinctively  that  such  ideas 
would  shock  Aunt  Crete,  therefore  he  kept 
them  hidden.  Every  room  in  the  house  was 
more  or  less  hateful  to  him  on  this  day ;  they 
were  all  peopled  with  sorrowful  ghosts  of  the 
past.     When  he  had  to  go  up  and  down  stairs 


25 


■;.     % 


n 


By    IV^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

pajt  his  mother's  room,  he  placed  both  trem- 
bling hands  over  his  ears  and  rushed  headlong 
as  though  followed  by  phantoms.  His  sick 
nerves  almost  made  him  believe  that  he  heard 
behind  that  closed  door  his  mother's  voice ; 
there  were  moments  when  he  was  sure  of  it, 
and  that  she  was  crying. 

Still,  being  the  boy  he  was,  Wayne  controlled 
outward  sign  of  these  mental  conditions,  and 
looked  only  a  little  paler  than  usual,  and  ate 
somewhat  less  at  the  breakfast  table,  "saving 
his  appetite  for  the  big  dinner  they  were  going 
to  have,"  his  well-intentioned  and  hopelessly 
blundering  Aunt  Crete  suggested.  After 
that,  Wayne  could  not  finish  his  glass  of 
milk ;  he  knew  he  should  choke  if  he  tried 
to  swallov. . 

Let  it  be  confessed  right  here  and  now  that 
the  chroniclers  of  this  life  are  perfectly  aware 
that  they  deal  with  a  history  that  has  been 
often  told.  The  introduction  of  a  new  mother 
to  a  shattered  home  is  certainly  a  very  common 
affair.  But  so  is  death  common  —  and  love, 
and  hate  —  and  life  itself,  for  that  matter;  yet 
so  long  as  there  are  individual  hearts  to  suffer, 
there  will  be  individual  experiences  that  will 
vary  from  that  of  other  individuals,  and  that 
will  deserve  to  be  written,  it  may  be,  for  pur- 
poses of  study ;  because,  if  by  understanding 
human  pain  we  can  by  any  means  lessen  its 
26 


%''\ 


on 


rer, 
ill 
lat 

ir- 

mg 

its 


it 


He  meant  to  be  Good. 

volume,  we  are  bound  by  the  rule  that  guides 
all  lives  worth  living,  to  do  so. 

That  this  experience  might  have  been  made 
almost  infinitely  less  painful  to  Wayne  Pierson 
can  be  easily  demonstrated.  Had  the  father 
who  had  sacrificed  much  for  him,  and,  studying 
his  tastes,  had  succeeded  to  a  remarkable  de- 
gree in  meeting  them,  taken  up  his  own  cross 
and  gone  frankly  to  the  boy  with  the  story  of 
his  needs,  and  by  degrees,  kindly  and  wisely  as 
he  knew  how  to  do  it,  had  accustomed  his  son 
to  the  thought  of  a  new  mother,  though  it 
might  have  been  a  pain,  the  loyal  part  of  the 
boy's  nature  would  have  risen  to  stand  by  his 
father,  and  the  utter  abject  misery  that  a  young 
soul  feels  when  deserted  would  ^ave  been  spared 
him.  To  have  been  made  his  father's  confidant 
would  have  gone  far  in  itself  toward  reconciling 
a  boy  like  Wayne.  That  the  father's  love  was 
weak^  and  had  in  it  an  element  of  selfishness, 
was  distinctly  shown  by  his  shirking  his  duty 
in  this  regard,  and  putting  off  his  cross  on  the 
shrinking  shoulders  of  his  maiden  sister,  who 
loved  the  boy  Wayne  as  she  did  her  life,  and 
who  had  all  through  the  years  taken  pains  to 
hide  that  love  under  a  mask  of  almost  indif- 
ference. Oh,  Wayne  knew  that  his  aunt  liked 
him,  and  was  good  to  hirn,  and  sacrificed  some- 
thing to  make  him  comfortable ;  but  that  he 
was  her  one  special  and  peculiar  treasure,  dearer 

27 


I 


I  Ml 


'*. 


W 


\\ii 


By    U^ay  of  the    JViiderness. 

to  her  than  any  other  creature  in  the  world,  the 
boy  never  dreamed.  A  knowledge  of  this  fact 
would  have  lessened  his  pain. 

People  who  do  not  understand  human  na- 
ture will  wonder  to  hear  that  Aunt  Crete  had 
lain  awake  nights  to  plan  just  how  she  should 
divulge  the  grea.  news  to  her  boy ;  yet  could 
she  have  done  it  more  bunglingly  had  to  bungle 
been  her  object  ?  Pity  those  poor  mortals  who, 
with  warm  hearts  and  good  intentions,  have  yet 
a  genius  for  blundering ;  they  are  not  few  in 
number. 

Up  in  his  own  room,  crouching  down  before 
the  open  grate  fire  which  burned  for  him 
because  he  liked  open  fires,  his  pale  face  paler 
than  usual,  save  for  one  small  bright  spot  that 
burned  on  either  cheek,  the  poor  fellow  waited 
for  his  fate.  Every  other  spot  in  the  house 
had  grown  hateful  beyond  endurance,  and  he 
had  broken  away  from  Aunt  Crete  with  the 
passionate  announcement  that  he  would  not  stay 
downstairs  and  wait  for  the  carriage  that  was 
momently  expected.  He  was  all  but  breath- 
less with  wonderment  as  to  what  would  happen 
next  after  that  carriage  arrived.  Would  his 
father  come  in  search  of  him,  and  should  he  get 
his  first  kiss  alone  there  in  his  room  ?  If  so 
what  should 


say, 


say 


fA 


father  ?     "I  will  try  to  be  good,"  he  murmured 
to  the  glowing  coals,  "  oh,  I  will  try  !  I  don't 
28 


He  meant  to  be  Good. 


want  to  hurt  father  as  he  has  hurt  me.  Mother 
wouldn't  Hke  that ;  she  said  a  boy  should 
always  think,  first  of  his  father."  Then  he 
broke  off  to  wonder  further.  "  Would  they 
perhaps  call  him  downstairs  to  meet  them .? 
And  would  that  other  boy,  that  awful  boy,  be 
there  ?  Aunt  Crete  had  fancied  at  times  that 
the  other  boy  would  be  a  relief,  even  a  comfort 
to  Wayne ;  it  might  have  been  so  arranged. 
One  can  fancy  the  father  sitting  some  quiet 
evening  in  the  firelight  with  his  arm  about 
his  son,  telling  him  softly,  tenderly,  of  another 
shadowed  home  ;  of  a  boy  near  his  own  age 
whose  father  had  gone  away  forever ;  of  a 
mother  who  was  desolate,  like  themselves,  be- 
cause of  a  grave;  and  of  his  saying,  by  and  by, 
when  all  questions  had  been  asked  and  an- 
swered, and  the  boy's  heart  had  grown  tender 
over  the  loneliness  of  others,  some  word  like 
this  :  "  What  would  you  think,  my  boy,  of  ou. 
trying  to  brighten  these  two  lives  ?  Could  not 
you  be  a  brother  to  this  lonesome  fellow  ?  He 
had  a  brother,  once,  but  he  died.  Are  you 
willing  to  share  your  father  with  him,  if  he  will 
let  us  have  a  share  in  his  mother  ?  Wouldn't 
we  all  be  happier  and  better  able  to  do  our 
work  in  the  world,  if  we  planned  this  way  of 
living? " 

It  could  have  been  done  ;  some  such  words 
as  that  would  have  made  a  difference  forever  in 

29 


By    I4^ay  of  the    IVilderncss. 


'%' 


ii'i' 


iii 


the  life  of  the  desohite  lad  who  crouched  before 
the  fire  and  felt  himself  deserted  and  deceived. 

If  his  father  had  but  talked  it  over  with  him! 
Still,  poor  fellow,  he  meant  to  try  to  be  good  ; 
and  he  said  to  the  coals  presently,  that  his  father 
would  surely  come  and  find  him,  and  hold  him 
tight  for  a  minute,  and  kiss  him,  and  he  would 
say  to  him  just  that,  "  Father,  I  will  try  to  be 
good." 

And  then  the  bell  rang,  and  there  was  the 
opening  and  closing  of  doors,  and  the  sound 
of  trunks  being  banged  up  the  steps,  and  all 
the  hum  and  bustle  of  arrival ;  and  the  boy 
sat  and  waited  ;  strained  his  ears  for  the  sound 
of  his  father's  voice,  and  of  that  other  voice ; 
and  held  his  breath  and  felt  faint  and  giddy  as 
he  heard  their  steps  ascending  the  stairs.  They 
were  coming  together,  then !  \i  his  father  would 
but  come  alone  !  But  they  passed  his  door  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  went  on,  into  his 
father's  room.  Instinctively  he  glanced  toward 
the  communicating  door,  although  he  knew  that 
it  was  closed.  It  nearly  always  stood  wide  open, 
and  Wayne  had  been  wont  to  look  upon  that 
room  as  belonging  to  him  almost  as  much  as  it 
did  to  his  father.  A  dozen  times  during  the 
process  of  dressing  he  ran  into  it  to  say  a  word 
to  his  father.  A  dozen  times  that  day  he  had 
closed  the  door,  and  opened  it  again,  and  closed 
it.     The  final  decision  was   that  it  should  be 

30 


He  meant  to  be   Good 


closed;  some  rare  instinct  of  self-abnegation  went 
with  the  decision.  Since  there  were  to  be  two 
in  that  room  instead  of  one,  they  would,  per- 
haps, like  it  better  closed.  He  meant  to  be 
good. 

He  listened  for  his  father's  voice  and  heard 
it,  a  cheery,  happy  voice ;  once  he  laughed. 
Wayne  had  always  liked  his  father's  laugh  \  he 
did  not  understand,  poor  fellow,  why  it  should 
strike  like  a  blow  on  his  heart  just  then.  Cer- 
tainly he  wanted  his  father  to  be  happy. 

They  went  down  again,  both  of  them  ! 
Wayne  listened,  and  listened ;  he  thought  they 
would  come  in  ;  he  could  hear  his  own  voice 
saying  politely  .  "  How  do  you  do,  ma'am," 
by  way  of  greeting.  Would  that  be  the  way  to 
do  it,  if  one  meant  to  be  good?  But  they  went 
down.  The  tension  on  his  heart  lessened  a 
little.  His  father  would  go  with  her  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  ana  come  back  alone  in  search 
of  him;  he  waited  and  waited^  and  no  one  came. 
If  his  father  had  but  gone  up  to  the  boy  that 
afternoon,  it  might  have  made  a  difference  with 
Wayne's  whole  life's  story.  Was  ever  truer 
poet  than  he  who  recorded  as  the  saddest  words, 
"  It  might  have  been  "  ? 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  afterward  came 
Susie,  the  second  girl. 

"  Mr.  Wayne,"  she  said,  '*  your  father  wants 
to  know  where  you  are,  and  why  you  are  not 

31 


m 


m: 


By    IVay  of  the   JVilderncss. 


.« 


downstairs  ;    he  says   you  are  to  come  to  the 
parlor  right  away." 

The  parlor!  if  they  would  only  let  him  say, 
"  How  do  you  do,  ma'am,"  in  any  other  room 
than  that ! 

He  did  not  make  a  good  impression. 

"Well,  sir,"  his  father  said,  *' where  were 
you,  my  boy  ?  1  expected  to  get  sight  of  you 
as  soon  as  our  carriage  turned  into  the  square, 
and  here  we  have  been  at  home  for  nearly  an 
hour." 

Actually  his  father  had  expected  to  see  the 
boy  come  rushing  around  the  corner  to  greet 
him.  Why  not  ?  That  was  the  way  he  had 
been  doing,  of  late,  after  ever  so  short  an  ab- 
sence from  home.  On  the  boy's  part  it  seemed 
that  his  father  must  know  that  wherever  he 
turned  his  tear-filled  eyes  in  that  room,  they 
saw  only  an  open  coffin.  All  that  the  father 
saw  was  the  trace  of  tears,  and  he  did  not  like  it. 

"  Augusta,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  boy."  His 
voice  sounded  cold.  It  seemed  quite  as  if  they 
were  planning  lo  hire  an  errand  boy. 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Pierson,  and  she  touched  her  lips  to  his  pale 
cheek.  She  was  tall  and  fair,  and  had  blue  eyes, 
and  very  light  brown  hair  that  was  arranged  in 
what  the  boy  called  "  crinkles." 

All  that  he  said  about  this  experience  after- 
ward was  that  she  did  not  look  in  the  least  as 

32 


! 


He  meant  to  be   Good 

he  had  supposed  that  mothers  always  did.  Her 
voice  was  pleasant  and  she  went  on,  talking 
about  him. 

"  He  looks  pale,  Edward,  and  rather  frail. 
He  is  only  a  year  younger  than  my  Leon,  and 
there  is  the  greatest  possible  difference  in  their 
appearance.  Not  that  he  isn't  tall  enough,  too 
tall  for  his  year;,.  We  must  try  to  broaden  you 
out.  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  take  enough  out- 
of-door  exercise.  Leon  will  remedy  all  that, 
though  ;  he  is  a  regular  athlete." 

It  was  all  very  kindly  said.  She  could  not 
be  expected  to  know  how  disagreeable  it  was  to 
the  boy.  Hadn't  he  been  told  all  his  life  that 
he  was  too  fond  of  his  books,  and  too  little  in- 
clined for  out-of-door  sports.  Wasn't  Aunt 
Crete  always  exclaiming  anxiously  over  his  "thin 
chest."  And  didn't  he  almost  despise  athletes? 
Great  rough  fellows  he  thought  them,  who  were 
always  behind  in  their  studies.  He  had  not  a 
word  to  say  to  this  new  lady,  and  he  remained 
silent  and  awkward.  His  father  darted  him  an 
annoyed  glance  which  but  sealed  his  lips  the 
closer,  and  finally  said  coldly, — 

"  Well,  my  son,  if  you  have  nothing  to  say, 
we  will  excuse  you."  But  he  followed  the  boy 
into  the  hall  and  spoke  sternly. 

"  Wavne,  this  is  by  no  mean-]  the  sort  of 
greeting  that  I  had  expected  at  yc<ur  hands.  I 
thought  I  could  trust  you,  and  believed  that 

33 


Ht  III' 


,;!  ill 


l^ 


By    IVay  of  the    Wilderness. 

you  would  honor  your  fatlier.  I  want  you  to 
understand  that  I  shall  expect  you  to  show  a 
very  different  face  to  your  mother  the  next 
time  she  sees  you.  If  you  cannot  control 
yourself  to-night,  you  would  better  not  come 
to  dinner  until  after  we  are  done." 

Wayne  turned  without  a  word  and  began 
to  mount  the  stairs.  His  father  looked  after 
him  with  a  yearning  heart  and  a  heavy  sigh. 
Fhe  boy  was  actually  stubborn  and  meant  to 
fight.  He  had  not  dreamed  of  such  a  con- 
dition of  things.  Wayne  had  always  been  a 
gentlemanly  bt)y. 

The  door  into  the  dining  room  had  stood 
open,  and  Aunt  Crete  had  been  a  forced 
listener  to  this  little  scene.  She  appeared  in 
the  hall  now,  and  did  not  mend  matters.  Her 
face  was  red,  and  her  voice  like  an  icicle. 

"  If  1  had  been  you,  Kdward,  I  would  have 
choked  myself  before  I  spoke  in  that  way  to 
Wayne;  the  poor  child's  heart  is  almost 
broken." 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  he  has  cause  for 
excessive  grief,"  answered  the  master  of  the 
house,  coldly,  "  and  I  look  to  you,  Lucretia, 
not  to  uphold  him  in  rebellion.  I  have  done 
what  I  believe  is  for  the  best  good  of  all 
concerned,  and  my  son  must  understand  that 
I  am  not  accountable  to  him  for  mv  actions." 

"  /  uphold  !  "  said  Aunt  Crete.    "  The  land 

34 


/ 


He  meant  to  he   Good. 


knows  I  — "  then  she  stopped.  Nobody 
had  seen  Aunt  Crete  cry  for  years;  but  just 
then  she  distinctly  felt  a  lump  in  her  throat 
that  she  knew  was  as  large  as  a  hen's  egg,  and 
was  certain  that  she  could  not  trust  her  voice 
with  another  word. 

Mr.  Pierson  turned  and  went  back  into  the 
parlor,  and  perhaps  he  may  be  pardoned  if 
he  gave  the  door  a  more  determined  push  in 
closing  than  there  was  need.  I'he  unreasonable 
man  was  disappointed  in    his   home  coming. 

Never  was  there  a  more  forlorn  and 
utterly  vanquished  "  fighter "  than  that  poor 
fellow  who  threw  himself  on  his  b^-d  in  an 
agony  of  weeping.  He  did  not  go  downstairs 
for  any  dinner;  he  was  sure  that  a  mouthful 
would  have  choked  him.  Aunt  Crete  c.ime 
herself  with  turkey  and  cranberry  and  all 
manner  of  dainties,  and  coaxed  ;  but  he  only 
shook  his  head  and  murmured  in  muffled 
tones,  "Aunt  Crete,  I   would  if  I  could,  but 

can  t. 

"  Poor  little  fellow,"  said  Aunt  Crete,  "it 
is  too  everlasting  mean  !  "      But  she  made  no 


attempt   to   snea 


'I 


pe; 


ik    th( 


•d 


e  words   sne   mi 


ght   h 


ave 


sai( 


[-ler   heart    had   been    much    ruffled   by 
her  brother's  stern  condemnatory  words. 

Late  that  night  a  small  brown  head  raised 
itself  from  its  pillow  that  was  all  but  wet  through 
with    tears,   and    listened    eagerly.      Its   owner 

35 


M 


:iiil 


r 


By    ff^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

heard  his  father's  step  moving  about  the  next 
room,  and  his  father's  voice.  He  listened, 
breathless,  as  the  steps  moved  toward  that 
closed  door  ;  his  father  would  come  in  and  kiss 
him  good  night  —  he  always  did,  no  matter 
how  late  home  he  was.  Then  he  would  put 
his  arms  round  his  neck,  and  whisper  in  the 
darkness  that  he  meant  to  be  good,  and  had 
meant  so  all  the  time,  only  the  words  would 
not  come. 

And  the  father,  the  other  side  the  wall^  •  od 
still  and  considered.  Should  he  go  in  to  see 
Wayne  ?  No,  he  believed  not.  The  boy 
might  still  be  obstinate,  and  he  might  say 
something  in  his  annoyance  that  he  would  wish 
unsaid.  He  would  wait  until  morning  and 
give  the  youngster  a  chance  to  be  reasonable. 

So,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  when  his 
fither  was  at  home,  Wayne  Pierson  received 
iio  good-night  kiss  from  him.  If  he  had,  many 
things  might  have  been  different. 


, 


36 


I 


I 


III. 

''  If  only — " 

WHEN  Wayne  got  downstairs  the 
next  morning  he  was  relieved  to  find 
that  his  father,  having  an  important 
business  engagement,  had  taken  the 
first  train  to  town,  and  that  his  stepmother, 
fatigued  with  her  journey,  had  not  yet  risen. 

Aunt  Crete,  too,  was  gone.  She  had  bidden 
him  good-by  the  night  before,  although  he 
had  secretly  determined  to  surprise  her  by 
being  at  the  station,  but  he  did  not  waken  in 
time. 

It  was  a  doleful  breakfast  he  took  by  him- 
self, smarting,  the  while,  under  the  sense  of 
his  father's  displeasure,  and  forlornly  desolate 
without  Aunt  Crete.  It  began  to  seem  to  him 
that  he  had  no  friend  left  in  that  house  except 
Ann,  the  cook,  who  had  lived  in  the  family 
ever  since  he  could  remember,  and  who  came 
now  with  cheery  words  and  a  plate  of  muffins. 
In  momentary  dread  of  "that  stranger's"  ap- 
pearance, he  made  short  work  of  breakfast  and 
hurried  off"  to  school. 

Mrs.  Pierson  was  more  than  pleased  with  her 

37 


i 


p 

H 

•i  '1 

' 

'  l'\ 

1 

I 

"\ 

h 


By    Tl^ay  of  the    JVilderness, 

new  home  when  she  stepped  out  on  the  broad 
porch  and  gazed  about  her  that  morning;  she 
was  charmed.  The  house  was  substantial  and 
roomy,  standing  on  an  eminence  which  com- 
manded fine  views  in  all  directions.  If  the 
style  of  architecture  was  somewhat  old-fashioned, 
it  was  atoned  for  by  grand  old  trees  and  spa- 
cious grounds  stretching  and  sloping  to  the 
shore  of  a  wide  river  which  went  placidly  on  its 
way  to  the  near-by  sea,  so  near  that  this  morn- 
ing its  blue  expanse  seemed  in  the  vista  between 
the  trees  but  a  piece  of  the  sky  reaching  down 
to  meet  the  earth.  It  was  early  springtime, 
when  the  willows  were  just  beginning  to  show 
tender  green  against  dark  pines.  The  blue 
and  green  and  brown  and  purplish  tints 
mingled  in  a  soft  haze  as  if  nature  had  but 
sketched  into  the  landscape  a  few  mere  hints 
of  what  the  summer  glory  might  be. 

Mrs.  Pierson  took  in  all  the  delightful  pos- 
sibilities of  the  place,  feeling  that  sense  of  ela- 
tion which  is  born  of  possession.  She  walked 
up  and  down  the  long  porch  exulting  in  the 
pure  air,  contrasting  it  all  with  the  life  she  had 
lived  for  the  last  several  years  in  a  crowded  city, 
with  limited  space  and  limited  means.  How 
wonderful  that  she  should  suddenly  have  come 
into  this  fair  heritage  !  And  stranger  still  that 
the  love  of  a  noble  man  should  have  come  into 
her  lonely  life,  and  that  her  boy  should  have 

38 


:« 


ts 


o 


I 


*'  If  only 


?5 


again  a  good  father,  who  would  care  for  his 
well-being  as  if  he  were  his  very  own.  He  had 
promised  it,  and  she  trusted  him  absolutely. 

The  newcomer  found  it  pleasant  to  go  on 
this  little  tour  of  exploration  about  her  husband's 
home,  quite  alone,  tarrying  where  she  pleased, 
to  look  or  muse.  She  passed  on  into  the  par- 
lor and  library,  large  pleasant  rooms  full  of 
windows  commanding  charming  views.  She 
studied  the  furnishings.  Her  taste  was  fastid- 
ious, and  another  wom.an's  individuality  was 
expressed  there  :  a  woman  whom,  in  spite  of 
herself,  she  regarded  as  a  sort  of  rival.  It 
would  be  natural  to  find  fault  with  her  work, 
but  there  "ucas  no  fault,  and  it  half  nettled  the 
new  woman  that  it  should  be  so. 

She  sank  into  a  luxurious  chair,  and  the  mir- 
ror opposite  told  her  that  her  lilac  morning 
gown  trimmed  with  soft  lace  was  extremely  be- 
coming, and  that  she  fitted  well  into  her  sur- 
roundings. i\gain  she  congratulated  herself, 
while  her  heart  brimmed  over  in  pride  and 
gratitude. 

And  vet,  and  yet  —  with  all  this  affluence 
and  satisfaction,  there  was  an  undeniable  fly  in 
the  ointment — there  usually  is  —  the  remem- 
brance of  it  came  now  with  a  pang  to  Mrs. 
Pierson  :  that  boy,  her  husband's  son  !  There 
came  also  a  sharp  reminder  of  the  altogether 
kind  and  fatherly  way  in  which  her  husband  had 

39 


iinm 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

taken  her  son  to  his  heart.  It  made  her  wince, 
yet  she  hastened  to  apologize  for  herself  after 
this  manner. 

"  That  is  a  very  different  matter.  My  dear 
handsome  boy  wins  everybody  at  once  ;  but 
this  cold,  silent  fellow,  actually  assuming  haughty 
airs  !  Who  could  love  him  ?  Oh,  why  did  he 
have  to  be  here  to  make  unpleasantness  ?  " 

But  it  startled  her  to  find  such  thoughts 
trying  to  get  possession.  She  resolutely  shook 
them  off  for  the  time,  and  continued  her  survey 
of  the  house. 

The  upper  rooms  were  delightful.  It  v/as 
as  if  a  kind  and  thoughtful  friend  had  selected 
carpets,  draperies,  and  paper  hangings  with 
special  regard  to  the  taste  of  one  who  was 
coming  there  a  stranger.  She  lingered  in  the 
exquisitely  appointed  guest  chamber,  but  un- 
welcome thoughts  came  to  her  how  that  other 
wife  had  been  busy  and  happy  planning  and 
arranging  it  —  for  her!  She  went  from  it  to 
Wayne's  room,  and  found  there  the  same  care- 
ful attention  to  every  detail  of  grace  and 
beauty. 

"Still,  it  is  better  suited  to  a  girl  than  a 
boy,"  was  Mrs.  Pierson's  mental  comment, 
"  and  that  is  one  trouble  with  that  boy :  he 
has  been  spoiled  ;  one  can  see  that  he  has  been 
taught  to  consider  himself  of  utmost  im- 
portance." 

4° 


(4 


he 
en 


If  only  —  " 


The  object  that  caught  and  held  her  atten- 
tion, however,  was  the  portrait  of  Wayne's 
mother.  It  impressed  her  at  once  as  a  face  of 
marvellous  sweetness  and  purity.  I'he  lovely 
eyes  looked  directly  into  hers  with  a  searching 
gaze.      Did  they  say  :  — 

"  You  have  taken  my  place  in  this  home. 
Will  you  be  a  true  mother  to  my  boy  ?  " 

The  better  nature  of  this  woman  stood  in 
reverence  before  that  other  woman,  whose  place 
on  earth  she  had  taken.  There  came  to  her  a 
sense  of  unworth  and  insufficiency.  It  would 
not  be  easy  to  fill  this  ofiice  which  she  had 
dared  accept;  it  would  require  her  best.  Well 
—  she  would  try;  she  would  do  her  duty  by 
her  husband's  son  as  far  as  in  her  lay.  Yet, 
even  with  the  resolve,  came  a  sigh  of  deep 
regret  that  there  was  such  a  person  in  existence, 
and  there  swept  over  her  an  unreasoning  wave 
of  jealousy  and  dislike  not  only  for  the  boy, 
but  for  that  pictured  face.  So  began  the  strug- 
gles of  a  life  that  had  the  promise  of  unalloyed 
happiness. 

Mrs.  Pierson  made  haste  away  from  the 
searching  eyes,  and  turned  her  thoughts  to 
more  agreeable  subjects.  Her  son  Leon,  her 
idol,  was  coming  that  very  day.  There  were 
little  motherly  touches  to  be  put  to  the  lovely 
room  set  apart  for  him.  How  delighted  he 
would  be  with  this  beautiful  home  !  if  only  — 

41 


J'! 


13:1 


I 


/, 


By    U^ay  of  the    IVildcrncss, 

and  again  the  mother  sighed  as  she  thought  of 
that  other  boy,  and  of  what  she  had  been  prom- 
ising. A  shadow  fell  across  her  spirit  as  it  oc- 
curred to  her  for  the  first  time  that  the  boys 
might  take  a  disHke  to  each  other,  and  endless 
quarrels  result.  In  such  case  one  of  them 
would  have  to  be  sent  away  to  boarding 
school,  and  Mrs.  Pierson  knew  well  which 
should  go  if  the  question  were  left  to  her 
to  settle. 

Eliphalet  was  the  name  of  Wayne's  ponv. 
A  farmer  back  on  the  hills,  with  whom  the 
family  had  boarded  one  summer,  had  presented 
him  to  Wayne,  on  the  boy's  eighth  birthday,  a 
promising  young  colt.  In  a  transport  of  grati- 
tude Wayne  had  forthwith  called  his  little  horse 
"  Eliphalet  "  after  the  donor.  The  formidable 
name  soon  shortened  to  "  Liph,"  and  they  grew 
up  together.  The  gentle  creature  seemed  to 
know  almost  as  much,  Wayne  thought,  as  an- 
other boy.  He  developed  into  a  beautiful  ani- 
mal, with  shining  coat  and  silky  mane  ;  he  was 
fleet  and  spirited,  yet  perfectly  obedient  to  his 
master's  voice. 

Wayne,  who  never  tired  of  skimming  over 
the  country  on  Liph's  back,  no  sooner  returned 
from  school  that  afternoon  than  he  set  out  for 
a  long  ride.  He  omitted  going  first  into  the 
house  to  be  welcomed.  There  was  no  Aunt 
Crete  waiting  for  him,  and  his  intuitions  told 
42 


U  I'l 


a 


If  only 


55 


him  that  his  stepmother  was  no  more  desirous  of 
his  presence  than  he  was  of  hers. 

The  ride  lengthened  itself;  the  boy  wished 
that  he  could  stretch  it  out  indefinitely  ;  could 
ride  on  and  on,  beyond  that  glory  in  the  west- 
ern sky,  to  some-other-where,  and  so  escape 
the  home  coming  that  he  dreaded. 

At  last,  however,  he  trotted  up  the  driveway 
in  time  to  see  his  flither  and  a  boy,  a  little  taller 
^\\\\\  himself,  alight  from  the  carriage  at  the  door, 
w'he  "other  boy"  had  come!  VVavne  would 
have  gone  on  to  the  stable,  but  his  father,  as  he 
went  into  the  house,  by  a  motion  of  his  hand 
and  a  look,  said  that  he  was  to  stay  and  be  intro- 
duced to  the  newcomer.  Mrs.  Pierson  'lad  de- 
scended the  steps  and  stood  with  outstretched 
arms  to  welcome  her  boy.  While  she  held  him 
close,  showering  kisses,  Wayne  felt  a  thrill  go 
through  him.  So  had  his  mother  welcomed 
him.  Would  ever  anybody  do  it  again  like 
that?  Aunt  Crete  loved  him,  but  it  was  not 
her  way  to  show  it  by  caresses.  His  step- 
mother rose  several  degrees  in  his  estimation. 
He  felt  almost  sorry  for  her  when  her  boy 
broke  impatiently  away  exclaiming:  — 

"Oh,  there  now,  hold  up!  Don't  lather  a 
fel— !  " 

"  Leon!"  His  mother's  tone  was  sharp  and 
imperative. 

Slang  was  her  abhorrence,  as  Leon  well  knew, 

43 


I  M 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

so  he  hastened  to  atone  ;  for,  fond  as  his  mother 
was  of  him,  she  could  treat  him  to  hours  of  silent 
coldness  when  displeased.  Throwing  an  arm 
about  her,  he  said  with  that  smile  which  always 
disarmed  her :  — 

"  Why,  you  make  as  much  fuss,  Motherie, 
as  if  I  had  been  gone  three  years  instead  of 
three  weeks." 

Then,  catching  sight  of  Wayne  who  had  dis- 
mounted and  stood  holding  his  horse,  he  called 
out :  — 

"  Hallo !  Who's  this  ?  Oh,  that's  the  little 
popinjay  you  wrote  me  about,  \z  it?" 

Wayne  had  advanced  a  step  or  two  and  was 
about  to  extend  his  hand,  but  drew  it  back  when 
he  heard  this  rude  salutation,  his  cheeks  flush- 
ing with  resentment. 

"Ah!  Quite  a  pretty  boy,"  Leon  went  on 
in  a  mincing  tone.  "  He's  bashful,  isn't  he  } 
What's  your  name,  dear  ?  "  He  came  nearer 
as  he  spoke,  and  gave  Liph  a  poke  in  the  ribs 
which  made  him  rear. 

"  Shame  on  you,  Leon,"  his  mother  ex- 
claimed, suppressing  a  smile  ;  "  you  are  becom- 
ing perfectly  lawless." 

Leon  had  a  secret  ambition  to  be  thought 
so.  One  of  his  mother's  friends  went  about 
saying  rude  things  to  people  in  a  serio-comic 
way,  making  everybody  laugh,  and  the  boy 
admired  it. 

44 


'  ^ 


:l 


,iL 


'  If  only 


59 


Wayne  wheeled  his  horse  sharply  about  and 
went  rapidly  toward  the  stable  without  having 
spoken  a  word  to  his  stepbrother,  who  sent  a 
derisive  laugh  after  him.  Once  in  the  stable, 
with  the  door  fastened,  Wayne  fairly  ground 
his  teeth  in  rage.  That  impudent,  hateful, 
horrid  boy  !  To  insult  him  in  the  very  begin- 
ning. In  his  own  home,  too  !  His  heart 
swelled  in  bitterness  against  his  father.  It  was 
not  enough  to  put  another  in  his  dear  mother's 
place,  but  there  must  be  that  hideous  fellow  to 
make  life  miserable  for  him.  The  thought  of 
his  coming  into  that  house  to  stay  was  per- 
fectly intolerable.  The  bov  had  been  trying 
for  the  last  twenty-four  hours  to  become  w^.:- 
onciled  to  the  thought  of  another  boy  coming 
there  to  claim  "father"  as  his  father,  and 
having  a  right  to  everything  about  the  place. 
There  had  been  brief  minutes  during  this  time 
when  he  tried  to  assure  himself  that  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  have  a  nice  boy  there,  and  have 
good  times  together.  He  had  almost  persuaded 
himself  into  that  belief  when  the  dream  of 
pleasant  companionship  was  rudely  dispelled. 
The  moment  he  caught  sight  of  Leon's  bold 
black  eyes  and  something  like  a  leer  on  his 
otherwise  handsome  face,  his  heart  sank  like 
lead. 

Mr.  Pierson,  through  a  half-closed  blind, 
watched  with  eager  curiosity  the  meeting  be- 

45 


I ; :  i  1 


By    fi^ay  of  the    IVilderncss. 

tween  the  two  boys.  He  was  too  far  off  to 
hear  any  words,  but  he  saw  that  one  boy  with 
smiling  face  v^ppeared  to  be  making  advances 
which  the  other  met  with  silence  and  dark 
looks,  even  turning  abruptly  awav  in  the  midst 
of  it.  rhe  father  was  vexed  and  disappointed, 
and  the  son  was  now  in  no  mood  to  seek  the 
reconciliation  for  which  he  had  longed. 

This  was  a  beginning  which  did  not  promise 
well  for  pleasant  relations  between  the  boys,  and 
no  one  who  had  taken  pains  to  study  their  dif- 
ferent temperaments  and  training  wr  'd  have 
hoped  for  it. 

It  was  well  that  Aunt  Crete  was  not  present 
in  those  first  few  weeks  of  the  new  familv,  or 
there  might  have  been  an  open  rupture.  As  it 
was,  there  were  no  keen  eves  to  look  on  and 
judge,  and  it  may  be  glow  with  anger.  Mr. 
Pierson  was  as  blind  as  most  men  who  have 
"  married  a  wife."  The  halo  about  her  was 
as  yet  undimmed.  Everything  connected  with 
her  was  sacred,  even  the  young  scapegrace  who 
was  all  deference  and  reverence  in  his  step- 
father's presence,  but  in  his  absence  mimicked 
his  grave  dignity  and  laughed  to  scorn  his 
words  of  advice. 

Mr.  Pierson  had  resolved,  in  the  beginning 
of  his  infatuation  for  Mrs.  Hamilton,  that  he 
would  take  her  son  into  his  heart  as  well ;  and 
it  would  not  be  difficult,  bright  merry  fellow 

46 


I 


(4 


If  only 


99 


that  he  was.  When  one  is  disposed  to  he 
blind  and  deaf  to  faults  in  another,  the  way  is 
open  for  genuine  liking.  Mr.  I'ierson  had 
ambitions,  too  ;  the  world  should  for  once  see 
a  family  who,  maintaining  that  relation  to  each 
other  which  is  supposed  to  be  peculiarly  pro- 
ductive of  strife,  were  nevertheless  beautifully 
harmonious.  He  was  prepared  to  exercise 
patient  forbearance  toward  his  stepson,  and 
surely  his  wife  would  love  his  sweet  spirited 
boy.  But  he  had  apparently  misjudged. 
Here  was  his  submissive  son  taking  on  a 
rebellious  attitude,  a  boy  remarkable  for  love- 
liness  of  character  suddenly  become  unlovely. 
He  could  not  understand  it;  this  lawyer  who 
was  rated  by  his  fellows  as  a  man  of  keen  per- 
ceptions. He  did  not  know  that  there  was 
quietly  carried  on  in  his  own  house  a  series  of 
cunning  devices  for  tormenting  and  humiliat- 
ing his  own  son  —  "jokes,"  the  inquisitors 
called  them. 

His  own  amusement  was  one  reason  why 
Leon  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  annoy 
Wayne,  at  least  that  was  the  one  he  gave  to 
his  mother,  who  sometimes  reproved  him, 
though  with  a  smile  lurking  behind  the  words 
—  she  herself  was  coldly  kind  to  Wayne,  and 
such  kmdness  when  long  endured  is  little 
better  than  a  series  of  blows.  There  wns  a 
deeper  reason  than  love  of  fun  thoughj  which 

47 


i 


I: 


l'  '     ! 


By    JVay  of  the    JVihkrness. 

was  the  secret  of  Leon's  actions,  and  that  was 
jealousy.  C)ne  source  of  pique  was  Wayne's 
musical  gifts,  cultivated  by  able  instructors  and 
much  practice.  When  he  played  for  guests  it 
was  gall  and  wormwood  to  Leon  to  hear 
praises  showered  upon  the  performer.  He  did 
what  he  could  to  embarrass  Wayne  at  such 
times,  usually  managing  to  sit  near  the  piano 
and  keep  up  an  undertone  of  talk,  teasing  and 
mocking  until  the  victim  was  perfectly  furious. 
The  auditors  sometimes  called  the  music 
"  spirited  "  when  Wayne,  with  a  frown  on  his 
brow,  pounding  the  keys  with  vim,  longed 
instead  to  let  his  force  fly  at  the  exasperating 
fellow  who  stood  smiling  by  his  side  officiously 
turning  the  leaves  in  a  way  to  cause  blunders  if 
possible.  Once  the  young  musician  was  adroitly 
tripped  up  on  his  way  to  the  piano,  and  no- 
body but  the  victim  knew  how  it  came  about 
that  a  boy  sprawled  on  the  floor,  his  music 
scattered  about  him  to  his  own  and  his  father's 
intense  mortification,  while  -his  amiable  step- 
brother flew  to  his  assistance. 

There  were  other  indignities  too  numerous 
to  mention,  and  it  must  not  be  supposed  that 
Wayne  bure  them  in  silence.  He  had  been 
carefully  taught  that  resort  to  blowj  in  the 
settlement  of  difficulties  was  brutal.  It  was 
not  possible  though  to  refrain  from  pouring 
out  his  indignation  in  a  torrent  of  words,  met 

48 


\% 


"  If  only 


55 


nng 
Imet 


by  jeers  and  rude  laughter,  which  often  misled 
the  parents  into  thinking  that  the  bovs  were 
making  merry  instead  of  quarrelling.  And 
through  it  all  Wayne  had  no  sympathy  from 
his  blinded  father.  It  was  strange  how  often 
the  boy  appeared  at  a  disadvantage;  contrasted 
with  Leon's  bright  ways  he  seemed  dull  and 
sullen,  and  it  was  charged  to  chronic  rebellion. 
We  are  severest  on  the  faults  of  those  we  love 
most,  just  because  we  love  them  and  long  to 
have  them  blameless. 

And  why  did  not  Wayne  tell  his  father  all 
and  claim  his  protection  ?  Partly  because  he 
had  the  usual  schoolboy  code  of  honor  which 
condemns  one  who  reports  the  evil  doings  of 
another  boy.  There  was  another  reason : 
Once  in  a  desperate  fit  he  had  broken  out  with 
an  account  of  some  outra*_,jous  prank  of  Leon's, 
when  his  father  silenced  him  with  :  — 

"  My  son,  I  am  astonished.  Have  you  no 
more  manliness  than  to  come  to  me  with 
complaints  ?  You  must  learn  to  take  fun  as  it 
is  meant,  and  like  other  boys  who  know  how 
to  take  care  of  themselves." 

These  words  cut  the  nerves  of  the  sensitive 
boy  like  a  knife.  Never  again  would  he  com- 
plain to  hi«  father.  Lie  went  away  by  himself, 
and  there  followed  one  of  those  conflicts  which 
change  children  into  men  and  women.  Oh  ! 
the  pity  that  it  should  begin  so  early. 

49 


IV. 

A    Crisis, 

THEY  were  father  and  son;  even  a 
careless  observer  would  have  known 
that.  As  Wayne  Pierson  had  grown 
to  manhood,  certain  marked  character- 
istics of  his  father's  face  had  repeated  them- 
selves in  a  pronounced  way  in  his.  It  is  a 
question  whether  the  very  similarity  of  their 
natures  did  not  help  to  make  it  more  difficult 
for  them  to  understand  each  other.  The 
merest  glance  into  the  room  at  this  time  would 
have  shown  that  disturbing  forces  were  at  work. 
The  father's  tones  were  as  cold  as  ice. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  Wayne,  not  to  have  a 
lengthy  conversation,  but  to  speak  certain  very 
plain  words.  I  am  simply  weary  of  this  sort 
of  life,  and  feel  that  I  have  endured  it  perhaps 
too  long.  It  is  of  no  use  to  hide  the  fact  that 
you  are  a  sad  disappointment  to  me ;  instead 
of  improving  under  the  most  patient  treatment 
possible,  matters  seem  to  be  growing  worse. 
Every  report  that  comes  to  me  shows  an  ad- 
vance in  —  I  hesitate  to  pronounce  the  words, 

5° 


A  Crisis. 


en    a 
nown 
rrown 
acter- 
them- 
t  is  a 
their 
fficult 
The 
,'ould 
iwork. 


Lve    a 
very 
sort 
jrhaps 
It  that 
istead 
:ment 
vorse. 
In  ad- 
^ords, 


but  suilenness  and  vindictiveness  seem  to  have 
become  characteristics  of  yours.  I  am  afraid 
that  the  mother  whose  memory  you  have  pro- 
fessed to  love  would  not  recognize  her  son 
if  she  were  with  him  now.  I  can  only  hope 
that  she,  at  least,  is  spared  the  pain  you  have 
given  me. 

"  But  I  did  not  intend  to  say  this.  It  has 
all  been  said  before,  and  proved  useless.  My 
words  this  time  shall  be  to  the  point.  I  have 
reached  a  decision.  Either  you  will  apologize 
to  Leon  for  this  latest  insult,  and  in  my  pres- 
ence, that  I  may  see  and  hear  for  myself,  or — " 

He  paused  involuntarily  as  his  son  turned 
from  the  window  and  confronted  him.  The 
young  man's  face  certainly  offered  no  en- 
couragement to  him   to  proceed. 

"Well,  sir,"  Wayne  said  at  last,  "*or' 
what  ? " 

"  Or  consider  yourself  no  longer  a  college 
student  at  my  expense,  with  every  want  even 
anticipated.  I  choose  to  bestow  my  money 
upon  a  son  who  at  least  tries  to  show  me  that 
he  appreciates  my  help." 

Wayne's  heretofore  pale  face  flushed  so  deep 
a  crimson  that  it  almost  seemed  as  though  the 
blood  must  burst  through  the  sensitive  skin. 
His  lips  were  quivering,  but  he  was  biting 
them  to  prevent  it,  and  his  eyes  flashed  omi- 
nously as  he  threw  back  his  head  with  a  gesture 

51 


f 


r 


:-««^« 


1  e 


:ll 

111 


. '....  J  j  -  iLifl.JLXi»ii^ 


ill 


By    fFay  of  the    TVilderness. 

that  was  peculiarly  irritating  to  his  flither,  per- 
haps because  it  was  his  own,  and  said:  — 

"  I  shall  certainly  offer  no  apology  to  Leon 
Hamilton,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  take  the  consequences. 
Consider  yourself  excused.  In  your  present 
mood  I  have  seen  quite  enough  of  you." 

As  he  spoke,  Mr.  Pierson  wheeled  away  from 
his  desk,  but  Wayne  did  not  wait  for  him  to 
rise.  Without  further  word  or  glance  he 
rushed  from  the  room,  out  into  the  side  yard, 
down  the  lane,  and  so  by  a  path  well  known 
to  his  childhood,  which  led  him  presently  to  a 
lonely  place  along  the  beach,  so  dreary-look- 
ing and  unattractive  to  others  that  chey  rarely 
visited  it ;  but  the  boy,  Wayne,  had  fought 
out  many  of  his  childish  battles  just  there, 
and  by  a  sort  of  instinct  he  turned  to  it  again 
in  his  young  mmihood,  now  that  another  crisis 
in  his  life  seemed  to  have  been  reached. 

Nearly  six  years  since  he  began  to  tramp 
there  as  a  child,  and  tell  to  the  restless  waves 
the  story  of  his  humiliations  at  the  hand  of  his 
stepbrother ;  but  never  had  the  passionate 
heart  of  the  boy  been  so  stirred  as  now,  when 
on  the  verge  of  manhood  he  paced  the  sanded 
shore,  and  added  yet  another  chapter. 

"  Since  the  first  hour  that  he  came,  he  has 
done  his  utmost  to  rob  me  of  my  father  and 
my  home,  and  this  is  the  climax !  he  has  sue- 

52 


A  Crisis, 


[ramp 
'aves 
»f  his 
mate 

iwhen 
.nded 

Iv^  has 
and 
sue- 


I 

I 


ceeded  !  I  am  not  only  worse  than  motherless, 
but  my  father  has  dehberately  thrown  me  off, 
and  taken  in  my  place  this  usurper  who  has 
hated  and  bullied  me  through  the  years,  and 
been  upheld  always  by  his  mother.  I  apolo- 
gize to  Leon  Hamilton  !  My  father  will  find 
that  I  will  follow  my  dead  mother  to  the  grave, 
rather  than  that.  He  is  *  weary  of  this  sort  of 
life';  who  isn't  ?  He  has  *  borne  enough,'  he 
thinks ;  he  will  find  that  I  have  !  The  crisis 
has  come  at  last ;  I  knew  it  would." 

He  could  not  think  connectedly ;  he  could 
not  give  even  the  waves,  that  came  constantly 
up  to  hear  about  it,  a  lucid  account  of  how  the 
climax  had  been  reached.  He  could  only 
tramp  about  like  some  wounded  creature  of 
the  forest,  and  utter  at  intervals  half  sentences 
that  merely  hinted  at  the  fires  of  passion  and 
of  pain  that  were  burninf?  within  him. 

Apparently  a  climax  had  at  last  been  reached, 
and  the  way  to  it  had  been  long  and  hard. 
One  curious  fact  was  that  it  had  been  hard  for 
most  of  the  parties  concerned,  and  not  one  of 
them  had  been  able  to  imagine  to  any  extent 
the  other's  pain. 

There,  for  instance,  was  Mrs.  Pierson  ;  it  will 
be  remembered  that  she  entered  this  home  with 
a  resolve  in  her  heart  to  do  her  duty  in  full 
measure;  and  it  shall  be  frankly  admitted  that 
at  times  she  had  earnestly  tried  to  do  it.     She 

53 


-1  -rf-^-ntji 


^-•»tjiti:s'i-^s»- 


il 


By    ll^ay  of  the    IVilderncss. 

had  brought  with  her  a  sincere  affection  for  the 
head  of  the  house,  and  a  real  desire  to  make  a 
home  for  him.  But  she  had  also  hr*.ught  one 
consuming,  unreasoning  passion.  She  had  an 
idol,  and  its  name  was  Leon  For  this  son  of 
hers  ro  sacrifice  was  too  gre^.t.  Despite  the 
affection  which  she  certainly  nad  for  her  hus- 
band,  she  would  never  have  become  his  wife 
had  it  not  been  plain  to  her  that  for  Leon  to 
secure  a  father  who  was  an  eminent  lawyer 
would  be  much  better  for  him  than  to  remain 
only  the  son  of  a  quiet  widow  who  had  but  a 
few  hundreds  a  year  of  her  own,  and  no  influ- 
ence in  the  great  world.  She  would  not  have 
liked  to  own  that  she  married  her  husband  for 
the  sake  of  her  son,  yet  if  she  had  understood 
her  own  heart,  that  might  not  have  been  too 
bald  a  way  to  put  it. 

Plainly  she  did  not  understand  her  heart 
very  well,  nor  begin  to  realize  how  hard  it 
would  be  to  open  it  to  the  son  as  v/ell  as  the 
father ;  yet,  as  has  been  said,  she  had  tried. 

Neither  was  she  inclined  to  be  hard  upon 
herself  for  her  evident  failure.  Could  she  be 
blamed  for  taking  her  own  boy's  part?  Who 
should  stand  by  him  if  not  his  mother?  Then, 
when  one  boy  was  good-natured  and  merry  and 
fun-loving,  and  the  other  was  silent  and  cold 
and  sullen,  could  any  one  be  blamed  for  seeing 
just  where  the  fault  lay  ?     On  those  rare  occa- 

54 


ess. 


A  Crisis. 


heart 
lard    it 
las  the 
:d. 

upon 
he  be 
Who 
Then, 
ry  and 
Id'  cold 
seeing 
occa- 


•< 


sions  when  even  she  was  compelled  to  see  faults 
in  her  own  son,  she  excused  herself  for  shield- 
ing him  on  the  plea  that  the  poor  boy  had  no 
father,  and  that  she  must  be  both  mother  and 
father  to  him. 

As  for  Mr.  Pierson,  it  would  not  be  fair  to 
him  to  say  that  in  planning  his  second  marriage 
he  had  forgotten  his  son.  On  the  contrary,  he 
had  thought  much  about  him,  and  had  con- 
vinced himself  that  the  step  he  was  about  to 
take  would  be  in  every  way  an  advantage  to 
the  boy  ;  but  this  was  not  until  he  had  yielded 
himself  so  entirely  to  Mrs.  Hamilton's  influ- 
ence as  to  feel  sure  that  he  wanted  her,  and 
her  only,  for  his  own  life.  If  the  woman  of 
his  choice  haa  chosen  him  for  a  like  motive, 
it  would  have  been  better  for  t.ie  son,  because 
there  is  no  genuine  love  for  a  man  that  does 
not  to  a  degree  include  his  child.  Mr.  Pier- 
son  had  come  into  the  new  relations,  not  only 
with  a  determination  to  do  his  duty  by  the 
boy  Leon,  but  with  a  yearning  affection  for 
him  because  he  was  his  mother's  son,  and  a 
real  desire  to  take  the  place  as  well  as  the 
name  of  father.  What  an  infinite  pity  that  in 
all  his  plans  and  hopes  he  failed  to  take  his 
own  boy  into  partnership  ! 

To  go  over  the  story  of  the  years  already 
passed  since  the  new  relations  began  would  fill 
volumes,  and  would  simply  be  history  repeat- 

Si 


By    IVay  of  the    U^ilderness. 


ing  itself.  For  the  most  part,  it  was  a  record 
of  failure.  Given  such  incongruous  elements 
in  a  home,  —  none  of  the  persons  concerned 
understanding  the  others'  heart  or  motive,  and 
at  least  one  of  them  not  caring  to  understand, 
—  what  other  record  could  be  made  ? 

Wayne,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  meant 
"  to  be  good."  He  had  carried  that  idea  in 
his  heart,  and  struggled  with  it  spasmodically  ; 
had  the  new  brother  given  him  half  a  chance, 
he  would  perhaps  have  come  off  victor.  But 
it  will  have  to  be  admitted  that  Leon  Hamil- 
ton was  inherently  selfish  and  tyrannical.  His 
nature  throughout  was  hard.  Not  that  he  had 
not  occasional  good  impulses,  and  there  was  a 
sense  in  which  he  loved  his  mother ;  but  he 
loved  not  her  nor  anvbody  nor  anything  half 
so  well  as  he  loved  himself.  This  inherent 
trait  had  been  fostered  by  his  mother  until  he 
was  honest  in  the  belief  that  the  world  had 
been  created  for  his  enjoyment,  and  that  what- 
ever hindered  that  enjoyment  must  be  pushed 
or  kicked  out  of  the  way. 

I'hey  had  struggled  up  through  the  years, 
until  nov/  Leon  was  within  a  few  months  of 
his  majority  and  Wayne  was  just  twenty.  The 
two  young  men  were  in  college  together  in  a 
town  but  a  few  miles  from  home.  That  is, 
they  were  classmates,  but  they  by  this  time 
so   thoroughly   disliked   each   other   that  thev 

56 


A  Crisis. 


ears, 
^s  of 
The 
in  a 
It  is, 
time 
thev 


came    in    contact    only    when    necessity    com- 
pelled. 

It  had  been  arranged  early  in  their  college 
course  that  Saturdays  and  Sundays  should  he 
spent  at  home  ;  but  on  one  pretext  or  another 
this  plan  often  failed,  one  or  the  other  remain- 
ing in  town.  When  Wayne  came  out  alone, 
Mrs.  Pierson  was  so  disturbed  and  so  full  of 
anxious  surmises,  as  well  as  of  hints  that  were 
disagreeable  to  her  stepson,  that  life  for  the 
three  was  not  comfortable.  But  when  Leon 
came,  reporting  gayly  that  Wayne  was  all  right, 
but  had  chosen  to  go  off  on  a  lark  of  his  own, 
it  would  have  made  the  absent  one's  sore  heart 
sorer  to  have  known  what  a  thoroughly  good 
time  they  had  without  him. 

Iji  a  curious  sense  the  two  young  men  were 
rivals  in  class.  Wayne  was  b)  nature  a  stu- 
dent ;  he  worked  thoroughly,  and  commanded 
the  respect  of  his  classmates  as  well  as  of  the 
faculty.  Leon,  on  the  contrary,  lived  for  what 
he  called  "  fun,"  but  he  had  a  good  memory 
and  was  quick-witted  and  unscrupulous.  He 
could  spend  half  the  '  ight  in  his  chosen  amuse- 
ments, then  borrow  the  notes  of  a  careless  stu- 
dent, make  free  translations  therefrom,  on  his 
cuffs,  or  anv  convenient  surface  that  could  be 
easily  concealed,  snatch  at  a  few  lines  of  the 
text,  put  on  a  bold  face,  and  come  off  sometimes 
with  flying  colors.     Occasionally  Wayne  would 

S7 


■^  _*«("« 


n 


By    ff^^y  of  the    Jrildcrncss. 

be  so  enniged  by  the  success  of  these  bare-faced 
nKincruvrings  as  to  lose  his  presence  of  mind 
and  make  a  poorer  recitation  than  his  rival. 
Such  an  episode  was  sure  to  be  followetl  by  an 
extraordinary^  account  of  the  affair  at  home, 
always  given  laughinglv  antl  with  such  an  ap- 
pearance of  high  good  humor  on  Leon's  part, 
that  Wayne's  contrasting  indignation  was  verv 
marked.  Sometimes  a  word  ot  caution  would 
be  called  forth  from  the  mother  after  this 
manner :  — 

"  Leon  dear,  what  a  sad  tease  you  are  !  It 
really  isn't  even  college  manners,  I  should  think, 
to  be  hilarious  over  the  misfortunes  of  those 
who  do  not  happen  to  be  as  cjuick  at  their 
studies  as  you  are." 

She  meant  it  for  good,  and  it  sounded  well 
to  the  father.  What  could  it  be  but  an  un- 
fortunate spirit  of  jealousy  that  caused  the 
blood  to  rush  violently  to  Wayne's  face  at  the 
sound  of  the  words?  There  were  times  when 
he  darted  a  look  at  Leon  that  his  mother  said 
afterward  was  "  positively  suggestive   of  dan- 

It  is  not  the  intention  of  these  historians  to 
linger  over  the  boyhood  of  the  two  whose  lives 
were  so  unfortunately  linkecl.  It  has  been 
thought  wise  to  give  to  our  readers  these 
glimpses  of  the  beginnings,  and  to  hint  at  cer- 
tain of  the  stumbling-blocks  that  might,  before 

5« 


III 


A   Crisis. 


well 

un- 

the 

the 

when 

said 

dan- 

ns  to 
lives 
been 

Ithese 
ccr- 

lefore 


they  grew  large,  have  beeti  easily  taken  out  of 
the  way;  and  then  to  go  on  to  the  account  of 
the  life-journev  as  it  led  through  devious  paths 
and  often  by  way  of  a  wilderness  up  to  what  we 
call  the  end.  It  is  hoped  that  the  reasons  for 
making  the  record  will  be  made  plain  as  the 
reader  progresses. 

But  the  evening  before  that  interview  be- 
tween Wayne  Pierson  and  his  father,  with 
which  this  chapter  opens,  Wavne  had  been 
hard  at  work  in  his  room  at  college.  \\\  im- 
portant recitation,  the  closing  one  indeed  for 
the  college  year,  had  been  scheduled  for  the 
next  morning,  and  Wayne,  who  believed  that 
he  stood  a  fair  chance  for  the  honors,  was 
making  a  last  careful  preparation,  when  he  was 
interrupted. 

A  response  to  a  tap  at  his  door  admitted  a 
senior  with  whom  he  had  a  slight  acquaintance, 
who  began  without  ceremon\  :  — 

"  i*ierson,  do  vou  know  where  Hamilton  is, 


this  e 


venmg 


?  " 


"  I  have  not  that  honor,"  said  Wavne ;  "  I 
rarely  have.  ' 

"  Well,  this  time  I  happen  to  know,  and 
he  is  in  a  bad  place.  There  is  another  row 
at  Ryder's.  Poor  little  Nixon  escaped  from 
there  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  came  to  me 
with  the  story.  He  says  Hamilton  is  the 
worst    one    there ;    he   doesn't  know   what    he 

59 


r-ff^ 


(Q-ser 


IS 


By    fVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

is  about,  you  understand,  and  I  am  afraid 
he  will  get  into  very  serious  trouble.  The 
authorities  are  especially  on  the  watch  for 
Ryder's  place,  just  now,  you  remember. 
It  won't  mean  less  than  expulsion  for  every 
one  who  is  found  there.  So  I  thought  per- 
haps—  excuse  me,  I  don't  want  to  be  offi- 
cious, but  Hamilton  is  a  relative  of  yours, 
isn't  he } " 

"  No,"  said  Wayne,  with  unnecessary  em- 
phasis; "he  is  my  father's  stepson." 

"  Oh,  —  well,  I  thought  you  might  like 
to  save  your  father's  name,  you  understand. 
Something  could  be  done  before  the  discovery 
comes,  but  not  afterward,  I  am  afraid.  I 
chanced  to  learn  what  the  outcome  would  be 
through  —  well,  no  matter  who;  I  won't  in- 
terrupt you  lo  iger ;  good-night." 

Then  Wayne  dropped  his  book  and  leaned 
his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  thoug  it.  Expulsion,  disgrace,  dis- 
honor. Were  these  not  what  Leon  Hamilton 
deserved  ?  Was  there  a  greater  cheat  or  a 
more  worthless  rogue  within  those  college 
walls  than  he  ?  Was  not  his  influence  among 
those  younger  and  weaker  than  himself  wholly 
bad }  Yet  who  knew  it  ?  Heretofore  the 
fellow  had  been  sharp  enough  to  escape  all 
publicity,  and  to  maintain  a  sort  of  reputation 
for  scholarship,  even.  Ought  he  to  be  helped 
60 


W' 


A  Crisis. 


em- 


t  in- 

aned 
in  his 
,  dis- 
ilton 
or  a 
liege 
ong 
holly 
the 
e  all 
ation 
;lped 


i 


to  continue  his  dupHcity  ?  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  was  his  father,  his  own  splendid  father, 
whose  name  and  reputation  were  hopelessly 
linked  with  this  young  scamp's.  It  was  his 
father  who  paid  the  college  bills  and  to  whom 
all  reports  were  sent.  He  seemed  to  see  the 
whole  storv  of  the  disgraceful  scene  at  Ryder's 
blazing  in  the  next  day's  papers,  with  liis 
father's  name  put  in  bold  type.  "  We  under- 
stand that  young  Hamilton,  the  principal  actor 
in  the  scene,  is  the  stepson  of  the  eminent 
lawyer,  Edward  W.  Pierson,  Esq."  And  then 
would  follow  sentences  that  would  drag  their 
family  affairs  before  the  public,  and  make  his 
father's  face  burn  with  shame.  It  must  not 
be !  He  must  try  to  shield  his  father,  even 
though  in  doing  so  he  should  have  to  help 
that  villain. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  a  detective  in  citi- 
zen's dress  made  his  way  through  the  confusion 
that  reigned  at  the  questionable  place  known  as 
Ryder's,  and  tried  to  make  plain  to  the  bewil- 
dered brain  of  the  chief  rioter  that  a  gentleman 
in  a  carriage  at  the  door  wished  to  speak  to 
him.  It  ended  in  the  detective's  calling  two 
policemen  to  his  aid,  and  even  then  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  Hamilton  was  conveyed  to  the 
carriage.  Once  within,  however,  he  sank  almost 
immediately  into  a  drunken  stupor;  and  when 
they  reached  the  college,  Wayne  and  the  detec- 

6i 


m 


•f-r 


hMI 


ss 


^    //^^  <9/^    t/ye    JJ^ildcrncss. 

tive  had  but  little  difficulty  in  getting  the  fellow 
to  his  room  and  bed.  Then  VVayne  locked  the 
door  upon  hini,  and  went  to  his  own  room 
In  the  morning,  finding  the  young  reveller  still 
sleeping  heavily,  he  again  locked  the  door,  and 
went  to  breakfast  and  to  his  recitation.  Ft  was 
two  hours  before  he  came  back,  to  find  the  lock 
broken  and  his  prisoner  escaped.  Later  in  the 
day  he  learned  that  Hamikx^n  had  taken  the 
eleven  o'clock  train  for  home.  Meantime, 
the  threatened  disclosures  concerning  Ryder's 
house  had  taken  place  later  in  the  evening,  and 
the  papers,  as  Wayne  had  foreseen,  were  ablaze 
with  details.  A  shiver  of  relief  ran  through 
his  frame  as  he  glanced  them  over,  and  found 
no  mention  of  the  family  name.  Once  more 
Hamilton  had  escaped. 

I'he  whole  affair  gloomed  the  day  that  would 
else  have  been  bright  for  him.  'Ihe  coveted 
honors  had  been  won,  and  he  was  taking  home 
the  nev/spaper  account  of  prizes,  with  his  name 
at  the  head.  But  he  was  taking  also  a  heavy 
heart.  The  time  had  come  when  he  must  cer- 
tainly break  the  silence  that  he  had  carefully 
maintained  ever  since  his  father  had,  years  be- 
fore charged  him  with  being  jealous  of  his 
stepson,  and  forbidden  him  to  come  with  tales 
of  him.  This  time,  disgrace  had  been  too 
imminent,  and  his  father's  name  had  been 
shielded  at  too  great  a  price.  The  son  must 
62 


A   Crisis. 


Ivould 
veted 
Ihonie 
name 
icavy 
t  cer- 
.•  fully 
•s  be- 
f   his 
talcs 
|i    too 
been 
must 


choke  tlown  his  pride,  and  let  the  truth  be 
known   now,  once  for  all. 

It  happened,  however,  that  he  reached  home 
bv  an  earlier  train  than  his  father,  and  it  was 
Mrs.  Pierson  who  met  him,  white  with  anger, 
to  ask  how  he  dared  to  follow  a  fatherless  boy 
to  his  retreat,  after  having  publicly  insulted 
him,  and  stolen  his  honors  from  him. 

It  became  evident  that  young  Hamilton  had 
not  taken  an  earlv  train  for  naught.  Bv  dint 
of  careful  listening,  and  a  quietly  put  question 
now  and  then,  Wavne  learned  that  he  was  sup- 
posed to  have  drugged  his  stepbrother  the 
night  before,  and  then  to  have  locked  him  into 
the  room,  from  which  he  had  escaped  with  dif- 
ficult}', the  motive  being  to  keep  I  lamilton 
away  from  that  important  recitation,  and  so  win 
for  himself  the  hotiors  that  but  for  this  would 
u!uloubtetllv  have  been  hi«  t^fM->^l-r^^l^^M.'o  i 


tepbrother's 


Wayne  was  simply  dumfounded  over  this 
state  of  artairs.  Well  as  he  thoi^ht  he  knew 
i.eon  Hamilton,  he  hatl  expected  to  '^wA  him, 
this  time,  somewhat  sul)dued,  and  anxious  to 
buy  silence.  Behold,  instead,  he  had  made 
Wayne's  duty  well  nigh  impossible! 

Before  he  had  determined  just  how  to  trv  to 


!n 


eet  this  new  stafc  of  things,  Wayne  was  sum- 
moned to  an  interview  with  his  father.  And 
the  father,  v/ho  had  just  come  from  an  exciting 
talk  with   his  wife  atid   Leon,  without  asking  a 


V '^dUMSRflMC9toikA£i^MBnnnMiMn>%«A  ^"^^ 


F< 


By    Jt^ay  of  the    Wilderness. 

word  of  expliination  from  his  son,  or  p'^rmitting 
a  suggestion  that  there  might  be  another  side 
to  the  storv  he  had  heard,  had  addressed  him 
in  the  way  that  has  ah*eady  been  told,  and  then 
dismissed  him  from  his  presence. 


04 


less. 


lifting 
r  side 
d  him 
i  then 


V. 

Apolog 


tes. 


^  FTER  pacing  the  beach  until  he  was 
ZJk  worn  out,  Wayne  turned  his  steps 
X  JL  toward  his  green  sanctum  in  the  pine 
woods  as  by  natural  gravitation.  It  had 
been  the  .  oene  of  many  a  boyish  mental  conflict, 
and  somehow  the  spot  had  a  calming  influence. 
Perhaps  the  resinous  fragrance  is  soothing  to 
sick  spirits  as  well  as  to  diseased  lungs. 

He  sat  down  on  a  knoll,  leaned  his  head  on 
his  hands,  and  tried  to  look  the  future  in  the 
face.  His  father  had  again  condemned  him  un- 
heard on  rhe  testimony  of  one  to  whose  faults 
he  was  s.  '1  blind  and  deaf  He  must  now 
l)egin  to  pL.n  his  life  without  reference  to  his 
tather's  aid.  While  he  knotted  his  brows  in 
perplexed  thought,  he  became  aware  that  a 
familiar  form  was  approaching,  and  he  sprang 
up  in  glad  surprise,  to  welcome  Aunt  Crete. 

"  Nobody  in  the  house  could  tell  me  where 
you  were,"  she  sud.  as  he  bent  and  kissed  her 
as  of  oi  i.  "  1  rh  _  ir,  though,  I  should  fintl 
you  IrL-rc  in  your  old  haunts,  and  when  1  came 

65 


(Iff 


t" 


iiifai 


!H" 


By    IV ay   of  the    IVilderness. 

up  the  hill,  Wayne,  it  looked  a  little  as  if  you 
had  come  out  here  to  settle  affiiirs  with  some- 
body or  something  just  as  you  used  to." 

Then  the  aunt  looked  him  over  with  those 
keen,  kind  eyes  of  hers,  a  long,  scrutinizing 
gaze,  wondering  if  the  last  two  years  of  college 
life  in  which  she  had  not  seen  him  had  made 
or  marred.  But  she  was  satisfied  with  the  lines 
of  the  pure  mouth  and  the  clear  eyes  which  met 
hers  unfalteringly. 

"  Well,  begin,"  Aunt  Crete  said  briskly,  tak- 
ing a  seat  on  a  cushion  of  pine  needles;  "tell 
me  all  about  yourself,  quick,  for  I  have  not  long 
to  stay.  I  am  on  my  way  to  Uncle  Daniel's 
to  spend  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and  shall 
take  the  night  express  from  here;  so  go  on!" 

"  Aunt  Crete,  do  you  remember  the  sunset 
en  the  river  through  that  opening  in  the  pines? 
Look  at  it  now  ;  isn't  it  glorious  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is ;  but  I  have  not  time  to  talk  about 
sunsets.  What  about  yourself.^  You  need  not 
try  to  turn  me  off  on  another  track.  You  are 
not  happ\',  Wavne ;    I  see  it  in  vour  eyes." 

"  Better  talk  of  sunsets,  or  anything,  rather 
than  my  miserable  artairs,"  the  young  man 
said  gloomilv  ;  "why  i-ehcarse  them  when  we 
have  but  a  little  time  together?  It  will  only 
make  you  unhappy." 

But  Aunt  Crete  was  not  to  be  put  off;  she 
questioiK\l  and  cross-questioned  until  she  knew 

66 


less. 

f  you 
some- 

those 
nizing 
:oHege 

made 
e  lines 
:h  met 

y,  tak- 

;  "tell 

)t  long 

laniel's 

i  shall 

on! 

sunset 

pines? 

about 
ted  not 
ou  are 

M 
t 

rather 
man 
len  we 
1  only 

ff;  she 
e  knew 


Apologies. 


the  whole,  putting  together  what  he  told  and 
did  not  tell. 

"  And  why  in  the  world  have  you  not  told 
your  father  all  this  long  ago  ?  " 

"  Because  he  long  ago  refused  to  listen  to  any 
complaints,  and  1  resolved  never  to  trouble 
him  again  on  the  subject.  That  fellow  repre- 
sents to  father  that  I  am  jealous  of  him  ;  he 
tells  all  sorts  of  lies  about  me  which  are  be- 
lieved because  I  will  not  condescend  to  plead 
with  my  father  to  have  as  much  faith  in  his  own 
son  as  he  has  in  a  stenson." 

"  He  shall  know  the  truth,"  Aunt  Crete  said 
resolutely  ;  "  I'll  go  and  tell  him  myself,  this 
minute.  The  idea  of  his  suspecting  you  of 
such  things  !" 

"Don't  you  do  it,  Aunt  Crete;  he  would 
despise  me  if  he  thought  I  got  vou  to  inter- 
fere. It  would  be  of  no  use,  either.  He  is  as 
completely  under  the  influence  of  that  woman 
and  her  son  as  if  he  were  hypnotized.  When 
I'm  not  in  a  rage,  I'm  sorry  for  father;  he  has 
to  walk  on  just  such  a  line,  because  tears  and 
hysterics  are  a  terror  to  him.  When  I  discov- 
ered that  Leon  was  drinking  and  running  into 
debt,  I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  father  for  his 
own  sake,  but  that  xilhiin  had  got  his  ear  flrst 
and  trumped  up  a  lie  about  me,  as  he  always 
does,  and  father  believed  it,  as  he  always  does  ; 
now  he  must  take  the  consequences;    I   shall 

67 


By    IVay  of  the    JVihlerness. 

not  tell  him.  The  injustice  of  his  treatment 
of  me  is  outrageous  !  " 

"The  trouble,  from  the  very  first,"  said  Aunt 
Crete,  sadly,  "  has  been  that  miserable  Pierson 
pride.  You  allowed  your  father  to  get  wrong 
impressions,  and  were  silent  because  you  were 
too  proud  to  explain,  when  you  should  have 
defended  yourself." 

"  I  must  maintain  my  self-respect,"  Wayne 
said,  with  his  head  held  high.  Aunt  Crete 
sighed,  and  was  silent.  At  last  she  spoke  half 
hesitatingly :  — 

"  Wayne,  it  is  sad  enough  to  have  you  on 
bad  terms  with  your  father,  but  there  is  some- 
thing that  troubles  me  more  than  that.  You 
said  you  hated  Leon." 

"  Yes,  I  said  so,  and  I  do ;  it's  the  naked 
truth,  and  I  cannot  deny  it." 

"  '  He  that  hateth  his  brother  is  a  murderer,'  " 
quoted  Aunt  Crete,  solemnly. 

"  If  you  knew  all  that  I  have  suffered  from 
that  torment,  you  would  not  wonder  that  I 
have  lost  patience.  He  is  perfectly  Satanic ; 
he  has  made  my  life  miserable.  I  have  envied 
the  merest  clodhopper  who  had  a  happy  home ! 
Don't  preach  forbearance  to  me ;  I've  got 
beyond  that." 

"  But  a  Christian  cannot  cherish  hate." 

"  I  am  not  a  Christian,  Aunt  Crete.  Why 
did  you  think  I  v  ^s  ?  " 

68 


i 


'mess. 

:reatment 

;aid  Aunt 
I  Pierson 
ret  wrong 
you  were 
)uld  have 

,"  Wayne 
.int  Crete 
poke  half 

^e  you  on 
e  is  some- 
hat.     You 

Ithe  naked 


1 


Apologies. 


>  >» 


lurderer, 

Fered  from 

er    that    I 

y   Satanic  ; 

live  envied 

ipy  home ! 

I've    got 


late. 
;te. 


Whv 


"  I  thought  so  hecause  once  upon  a  time  a 
certain  dear  boy  declared  his  purpose  to  love 
and  serve  his  Lord." 

"  That  boy  was  lost,  long  ago,  turned  into  a 
wretched,  prematurely  grown-up  creature.  But 
don't  let's  talk  of  that  any  more.  Time  is 
going,  and  I  must  talk  to  you  about  my  plans. 
You  know  I  am  cast  otf  now.  Father  said  I 
might  consider  his  aid  at  an  end  unless  I  apolo- 
gize to  Leon  !  I  shall  go  away  from  here  for- 
ever;  I  am  tired  of  this,  anyway." 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing  !  "  Aunt  Crete 
said,  with  energy.  "  The  idea  of  your  going 
away  and  leaving  everything  to  that  rascal  ! 
Have  a  talk  with  your  father  and  make  him 
understand.  He  is  hasty,  I  know,  and  he  is 
in  a  trying  position  ;  but  I  am  sure  that  he 
didn't  really  mean  what  he  said.  Don't  cut 
loose  from  your  father.  Finish  your  college 
course,  at  least;  then  your  way  will  be  clearer. 
You  can  come  and  live  with  me  then  as  long 
as  you  like  in  the  old  homestead.  I'll  pro- 
vide the  home,  and  you  can  provide  the  bread 
and  butter." 

Aunt  Crete  felt  at  ease  about  Wayne's  fu- 
ture, because  his  mother's  not  small  fortune  had 
been  willed  to  her  boy  ;  but,  by  her  request,  the 
boy  himself  was  to  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  it 
until  he  became  of  age. 

Before  Aunt  Crete  continued  herjournev  that 

69 


If  'II 


!il;| 


til 


By    JVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

evening,  she  secured  a  promise  from  Wayne 
that  he  would  have  an  explanation  with  his 
father  that  very  night.  Accordingly,  when  he 
returned  from  accompanyi  g  his  aunt  to  the 
station,  he  went  to  the  library  to  fulfil  this 
promise.  His  father  was  no:  there,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  an  unusual  bustle  and  stir  in  the 
house.  Jonas  presently  drcve  the  carriage  to 
the  door,  and  soon  his  father  came  downstairs, 
travelling-bag  in  hand,  and  hurriedly  explained 
that  he  had  been  sununoned  to  a  distant  city 
on  important  business.  As  he  bade  Wayne 
good-by,  he  left  in  his  hand  a  note.  Wayne 
hurried  with  it  to  the  library  and  read  as 
follows  :  — 


"  Dear  Wayne  :  I  am  compelled  to  be  ab- 
sent from  home,  for  several  days  at  least,  l^er- 
haps  I  have  taken  the  pranks  of  college  boys 
too  seriously  and  been  unnecessarily  harsh  with 
vou  ,  so  consider,  if  you  nlease.  those  last  words 
o:  mine  unsaid.  It  is  true  1  am  distressed  that 
your  manhood  has  not  yet  overcome  and  cast 
out  that  strange  spirit  of  jealousy  that  seemed 
to  take  possession  of  you  on  Leon's  first  com- 
ing to  us.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  has  shown 
much  forbearance.  Do  try  to  have  things  dif- 
ferent between  you  ;  his  generous  nature  will 
overlook  everything,  I  am  sure.  My  life  out 
in  the  world  is  extremely  harassing ;  if  I  might 
70 


ness. 


Apologies. 


Wayne 
th  his 
hen  he 
to  the 
fil  this 
1  there 
•  in  the 
iage  to 
n stairs, 
plained 
mt  city 
Wayne 
Wayne 
read   as 


be  ab- 

l^er- 

te  boys 

,h  with 

words 

:d  that 

d  cast 

leenied 

com- 

ishown 

:s  dif- 

e  will 

ife  out 

imight 


enjoy  peace  and  quiet  in   my   home,  it  would 
be  an  immense  relief.  ,,  r^  ,, 

hATHER. 

If  Wayne  had  been  humiliated  and  angry  be- 
fore, he  was  furious  now.  What  had  not  that 
smooth-tongued  enemy  of  his  accomplished  ! 
It  was  just  as  Aunt  Crete  had  said;  he  had 
himself  been  foolishly  silent.  Now  indeed  his 
father  should  know  the  truth,  if  he  could  pos- 
sibly get  it  before  him,  and  he  would  not  go 
away  ;  he  would  stay  and  assert  his  rights. 

He  did  not  know  how  soon  an  opportunity 
would  offer. 

It  was  growing  late,  but  still  he  paced  the 
floor,  absorbed  in  bitter  thoughts.  Suddenly 
he  was  aware  of  another  presence  i;i  the  room. 
His  stepmother,  clad  in  a  white  wrapper,  stood, 
ghostlike,  in  the  doorway. 

"Wayne,"  she  began  haughtily,  "what  is 
the  meaning  of  this  .^  Do  you  kno*v  that  it 
is  almost  twelve  o'clock?" 

"  Well,  and  what  of  that  P  "   he  asked. 

"  Are  you  not  aware  that  the  house  should 
be  closed  by  this  time  ?  "  She  began  closing 
and  fastening  windows  as  she  spoke. 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I'm  not  ready  to  leave 
this  room  yet,"  Wayne  answered.  "  When  I 
am,  I  will  attend  to  the  locks." 

Mrs.  Pierson  looked  at  the  tall  young  man 
before   her,  and  swiftly  took   in  the  fact  that 

71 


ai'  ■'■ 


•^    ~ ' 


h 


By    ff^^^y  of  the    lll/c/erness. 

he  was  actually  no  longer  a  hoy.  But  she  was 
not  to  be  cowed  by  him  ;  she  drew  herself  up 
with   dignity,  and   said  :  — 

"  I  think  you  forget  that  I  am  the  mistress 
of  this  house,  and  close  it  when  I  please." 

"  And  I  think  you  forget  that  I  am  the 
grown  sjn  of  the  master  of  this  house,  and  as 
such  have  a  few  rights  worthy  of  respect." 

Notwithstanding  the  masterful  air,  Mrs. 
Pierson  walked  toward  the  lights  as  if  io  turn 
them  out,  saying,  "  It's  all  nonsense  for  young 
people  to  sit  up  late,  and  I  don't  intend  to 
keep  mv  house  ^en  and  ablaze  with  li^ht  at 
this  hour,  inviting  the  notice  of  burglars." 

Wayne  laughed  scornfully.  The  idea  of 
burglars  in  that  quiet  spot  where  he  had  spent 
his  life  was  preposterous.  He  too  came  and 
stood  under  the  chandelier,  and  there  was  a 
silent  conflict  between  the  two  as  they  looked 
into  each  other's  faces. 

"  And  1  do  not  intend  to  be  turned  out  of 
the  library  and  sent  to  bed,  as  if  I  were  ten  in- 
stead of  twenty,  at  the  command  of  one  who 
came  into  this  family  several  years  later  than  I 
did."  Wayne's  eyes  glowed  with  excitement 
as  he  spoke.  His  stepmother  had  the  advan- 
tage of  him,  for  she  remained  cool  outwardly. 
She  was,  in  fact,  speechless  with  surprise  for  a 
moment.  Her  stepson  had  been  haughty  and 
cold,  but  never  before  had  he  blazed  out  like  this. 

72 


ess. 


Jpo/orr/rs. 


z  was 
If  up 

stress 

1   the 

nd  as 

> 

Mrs. 

turn 
•^oung 
nd  to 
■ht  at 


ea 


of 

spent 
e  and 
was  a 
ooked 

Dut  of 

en  in- 

e  who 

ban  I 

ement 

dvan- 

ardly- 

for  a 

y  and 

e  this. 


"  Indeed  !  "  she  said  nresentlv  ;  "  vou  must 
make  vour  conduct  match  your  age,  then. 
Men,  that  is,  {[tv/zAwtv/,  are  courteous  to  women. 
I  shall  not  condescend  to  c|uarrel  with  you  ; 
hut  be  assured  that  your  father  shall  iiear  of 
this  disrespect  to  me."  Whereupon  Mrs. 
Pierson  walked  majestically  out. 

In  her  room  and  preparing  for  rest,  she  called 
herself  a  fool  that  she  had  managed  so  miser- 
ablv.  The  bov  who  had  suddenly  turned  into 
a  man,  and  become  her  enemy,  she  might  years 
ago  have  charmed  to  her  allegiance,  even  as  she 
did  the  father. 

Wayne  Pierson  did  not  sleep  well  that  night. 
Added  to  all  his  other  troubles,  he  had  himself 
to  reckon  with.  At  his  own  tribunal  he  had 
been  tried  and  convicted.  His  stepmother's 
words  held  a  sting.  His  standard  of  what  was 
due  from  man  to  woman  was  extremely  high, 
even  chivalric,  and  it  covered  him  with  shame 
to  .alize  that  he  had  transgressed  a  law  which 
.c  ^particularly  prided  himself  upon  observing. 
He  had  treated  a  woman,  his  father's  wife,  with 
discourtesy.  There  was  just  one  thing  to  be 
done :  he  must  apologize.  Oh,  the  Miisery  of 
going  through  this  ordeal  with  that  icicle  of  a 
woman  !  but  there  was  no  other  way  out.  It 
was  no  fear  of  consequences  which  made  him 
thus  decide.  He  simply  could  not  respect 
himself,  and  do   otherwise. 

73 


tma^ 


By    //^{y  of  the    IVildcrncss. 

The  next  morning  he  was  u}^  early,  g^^i'ig 
about  restlessly,  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to 
speak,  to  his  stepmother.  He  wantcil  it  over 
with,  but  there  were  guests  in  the  house,  and 
it  was  not  easy  to  find  her  alone ;  however, 
after  l)reakfast  she  happened  out  on  the  porch, 
not  knowing  that  he  was  there.  Wayne  came 
forward  eagerly,  his  hat  liftetl,  and  bowing  with 
a  grace  that  Mrs.  Pierson  had  often  remarked 
in  him,  he  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  speak- 
ing to  you  as  I  did  last  night ;  it  was  very  rude, 
and  I  should  not  have  forgotten  myself  so  fu* 
had  I  not  been  greatly  incensed  over  another 
matter." 

His  stepmother  gazed  at  him  in  unqualified 
surprise.  This  was  a  new  phase  in  a  young 
man's  character.  Wayne  had  always  avoided 
a  direct  issue  with  her,  since  he  had  grown 
older,  so  there  had  been  no  occasion  for 
apology.  Her  own  son  was  certainly  not 
given  to  confessions  of  wrong.  What  a  queer 
fellow  Wayne  was !  She  knew  he  was  not 
mocking  her;  his  tones  and  manner  were  re- 
spectful, and  hi?  eyes  looked  sincere.  She  was 
not  entirely  proof  against  so  courteous  an 
apology  ;  for  a  moment  her  heart  warmed  to 
him ;  then  an  ugly  feeling  that  an  action  so 
noble  condemned  her  own  son  turned  the  scale. 
He  from  a  child  had  possessed  a  lawless  tongue, 
and  never  dreamed  of  apologies.     She  thought 

74 


U'SS. 


Apologies. 


going 
ity  t(j 
:  over 
t;,  aiul 

porch, 
came 
g  with 
uirkcd 
spcak- 
,'  rude, 
so  far 
nother 

lalifietl 
young 
voided 
grown 
Dn    for 
:    not 
queer 
lis    not 
re  re- 
le  was 
Dus    an 
led  to 
ion  so 
scale, 
ongue, 
lought 


within  herself:  "  Wayne  is  nrobahly  tryintr  to 
buy  me  ot+'.  He  sup}">oses  that  if  he  confesses, 
I  will  not  mention  it  to  his  father."  When 
she  spoke,  after  hesitation,  her  "  Certainly  "  was 
as  cold  as  if  it  had  frozen  on  the  way  out. 

During  that  day  a  vivid  account  of  the 
library  scene  was  forwarded  to  her  husband  ; 
it  had  concluded  with  :  "  I  am  really  worried 
about  Wayne.  He  looked  perfectly  furious. 
But  there — 1  did  not  mean  to  trouble  you; 
of  course  we  must  bear  with  him,  and  count  it 
one  of  the  means  of  disciplining  our  spirits  in 
patience.      I  am  truly  sorrv  for  you." 

It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  Mrs.  Piersoji 
that  her  husband  had  aught  to  complain  of  in 
her  own  son.  Mother-love  had  a  mantle  broatl 
and  long  to  screen  him  from  eyes  severe  ;  but 
alas  for  Wayne,  whose  faults  were  seen  through 
a  magnifying  glass. 

In  the  afternoon  Wayne  took  a  sudden  de- 
termination  to  spend  the  Sabbath  with  a  friend 
several  miles  distant  by  rail ;  so  he  left  home 
soon  after  luncheon. 

He  had  not  been  long  gone  Vvhen  Leon 
sauntered  out  to  the  stable  where  the  horses 
of  the  two  young  men  stood  side  by  side.  He 
began  to  saddle  his  own  for  a  gallop,  but  dis- 
covered a  loose  shoe.  Instead  of  delaying  his 
ride  for  a  little  and  taking  his  horse  to  a  near-by 
blacksmith  shop,  he  laid  hold  of  Wayne's  pony. 

IS 


■iS:^:^*^'; 


l\ 


By    ff^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

Then  he  gave  a  long,  low  whistle,  a  signal  with 
him  that  he  was  somewhat  perplexed  and  non- 
plussed. A  slender  chain  passed  about  Liph's 
neck  and  then  through  an  iron  ring  in  a  beam, 
and  was  securely  fastened  with  a  padlock. 

"  Aha,  my  boy  !  we'll  see  whether  you  have 
got  the  better  of  me  this  time,"  he  muttered,  as 
he  ransacked  his  pockets  for  keys.  It  was  not 
the  first  time  that  Leon  had  attempted  to  ride 
Liph ;  but  he  was  so  cruel  to  animals  that 
Wayne  would  on  no  account  trust  his  horse 
to  him,  and  had  taken  this  precaution  to  make 
all  safe  during  his  absence.  He  carried  one 
key  himself  and  had  provided  Jonas,  the  man 
of  all  work,  with  another. 

It  was  like  Leon  to  be  more  than  ever  de- 
termined to  ride  the  horse  as  the  difficulties  of 
accomplishing  it  increased.  Jonas  was  at  work 
in  a  far-off  lot,  and  the  horse  could  be  secured 
if  he  could  only  unlock  that  padlock,  and  un- 
lock it  he  would,  somehow  or  other.  He  went 
upstairs  and  got  all  the  keys  that  would  be 
liktly  to  fit.  At  last,  a  key  belonging  to  an 
old  valise  almost  opened  the  padlock.  A  little 
filing,  then  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  the 
horse  was  free,  or  rather,  he  was  in  bonds  to  a 
tyrant. 

While  Leon  saddled  him  he  could  not  keep 
the  ''grin"  from  his  face  that  the  other  young 
man  so  hated.     Very  soon  he  trotted  down  the 

76 


ess. 


Apologies. 


beam, 


have 
red,  as 
as  not 
o  ride 
s  that 
horse 
make 
;d  one 
le  man 

er  de- 
ities of 
It  work 
lecured 
nd  un- 
e  went 
luld  be 

to  an 

little 

Ind  the 

Is  to  a 


road,  well  pleased.  Lipli  was  the  pertcction 
of  a  sa(kiIe-horse,  for,  added  to  unusual  ease 
of  motion,  he  was  even  more  fleet  atid  spirited 
than  Leon's  own;  and  thevoung  man  had  long 
been  mantruvring  to  secure  him  for  a  dash  over 
the  country. 

The  sun  was  throwing  long  shadows  when 
Leon  came  plunging  at  full  speed  up  the  car- 
riage-way ;  and  nobody  would  have  recognized 
the  gentle  Liph  in  this  wild-eved  creature  with 
distended  nostrils  and  covered  with  foam.  It 
happened  that  Liph's  master,  not  hntling  his 
friend  at  home,  had  returned  by  the  next  train, 
and  at  this  moment  came  up  the  pathwav 
through  the  grove,  amazement,  horror,  and 
fury  in  his  face.  He  was  just  in  time  to 
hear  from  among  the  vines  about  the  porch  a 
soft  voice  with  a  note  of  distress  in  it,  exclaim  : 

"  Oh,  that  poor  dear  horse  !  "  And  Wayne 
knew  that  it  was  not  his  stepmother's  voice. 


|t  keep 
lyoung 
'n  the 


77 


'V 


VI. 

Enid, 


DURING  the  last  fortnight  there  had 
been  a  guest  at  Beechwood  whose 
presence  had  the  same  effect  on  the 
household  that  a  burst  of  sunshine  let 
into  a  gloomy  room  might  produce.  Not  that 
the  inmates  of  that  home  were  continually  war- 
ring,  but  when  there  is  not  perfect  harmony, 
the  atmosphere  is  more  or  less  affected  by  it. 
rhe  house  was  often  gay  with  music  and  laugh- 
ter and  merry  guests,  who,  despite  good  cheer 
and  abounding  hospitality,  were  conscious  of  a 
chill  in  the  intercourse  of  the  family  themselves. 
Enid  VVilmer  was  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Pier- 
son's  dearest  friend.  Their  intimacy,  begun  in 
school,  had  been  cemented  through  the  years 
by  correspondence  and  occasional  visits.  When 
ill  health  obliged  Mrs.  Wilmer  to  spend  a  year 
at  certain  springs  in  Europe,  she  decided  to 
leave  her  daughter  Enid  in  the  excellent  school 
where  she  had  been  a  pupil  for  two  years  past. 
Learning  of  this,  Mrs.  Pierson  petitioned  that 
the  young  girl  be  allowed  to  spend  her  summer 
vacation  at  Beechwood. 

78 


Enid. 


I  had 
vhose 
n  the 
ne  let 
It  that 
/  vvar- 
nony, 

by  it- 
lugh- 
cheer 
s  of  a 
elves. 
Pier- 
Ill  n  in 
ears 
hen 
la  year 
led   to 
school 
past, 
that 
Immer 


"  Let  your  dear  girlie  come  to  us,"  she  had 
written.  "  We  will  take  thr.  best  care  of  her. 
Leon  is  at  home,  and  will  be  delighted  to  ride 
and  walk  and  row  with  her,  Who  knows,  dear 
friend,  but  that  it  might  be  the  small  beginning 
of  an  attachment  which  would  fulfil  our  early 
dreams  that  our  children  should  belong  to  each 
other  ?  Not,  of  course,  that  I  would  encourage 
love-making  thus  early,  but  it  is  well  to  have 
them  acquainted." 

Mrs.  Wilmer  was  only  too  happy  to  have 
her  daughter  in  her  friend's  home  during  a 
part  of  the  long  separation.  There  is  a  type 
of  modern  schoolgirl,  flippant,  irreverent,  ill- 
mannered,  which  one  shudders  to  encounter 
until  life's  experiences  and  the  grace  of  (iod 
have  chiselled  and  polished  away  insufferable 
egotisms  and  vanities.  Such  was  not  Lnid 
Wilmer.  Indeed,  it  was  a  wonder  that  a  na- 
ture so  sweet  and  unspoiled  should  have  sprung 
from  the  unfriendly  soil  of  wealth  and  fashion. 
The  families  had  not  met  in  several  years,  but 
Mrs.  Pierson  had  written  much  o^  her  son,  so 
that  Enid  quite  looked  forward  to  the  pleasure 
of  having  a  sort  of  brother  to  go  about  with 
her,  unless  perhaps  she  should  stand  too  much 
in  awe  of  so  great  a  paragon  as  his  mother  had 
painted  him. 

Leon,  too,  welcomed  the  thought  of  a  young 
lady  guest  for   so   long  a   time.     When   they 

79 


1 1 

'   il    i 

\ 

'ltl 


By    IVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

met,  both  were  disappointed.  Leon's  loud, 
hold  ways,  and  his  taking  a  sort  of  possession 
of  Knid  from  the  first,  not  in  a  brotherly  style, 
either,  but  as  if  she  were  a  grown-up  young 
lady,  repelled  the  girl.  He  darted  impressive 
glances  at  her  from  his  big  black  eyes,  and  rat- 
tled off  sentimental  nonsense  mixed  with  silly 
compliments.  Enid,  on  the  contrary,  had 
thought  of  herself  as  not  much  more  than  a 
little  girl,  and  Leon  as  a  nice  boy  who  would 
be  a  good  comrade  to  ramble  about  with  her. 
Leon  was  amazed  that  his  efforts  at  flirting 
met  with  so  little  success.  When  he  flashed 
unutterable  things  at  her  from  eloquent  eyes, 
her  own  earnest  gray-blue  one  ^  ^!;ave  no  an- 
swering flash,  but  gravely  regaK.^  .1  him  wirh 
innocent  steadfast  look,  as  if  she  did  ncjt  un- 
derstand such  manifestations.  Wheii  he  grew 
bolder  and  talked  what  she  called  "  foolish- 
ness," she  would  promptly  take  herself  out  of 
hearing  of  his  voice,  or  surprise  him  by  spirited 
banter,  turning  his  lovemaking  into  ridicule 
without  mercy.,  The  womanly  intuitions  even 
of  her  brief  seventeen  years  told  her  it  was  but 
hollow  talk  and  mockery. 

The  "  other  boy  "  whom  Enid  met  at  meal- 
times and  occasionally  in  the  evening  was  a 
problem  to  her.  Reserved,  rather  silent,  it 
was  difficult  to  know  him  ;  but  his  grave,  kind 
eyes  and  courteous  manner  won  Enid's  liking, 
8q 


ess. 


Enid 


spirited 
ridicule 
lis  even 
v'as  but 

It  meal- 
was   a 
llent,  it 
le,  Wind 
liking, 


and  what  shr  :;w  of  him  belied  what  she  con- 
tinually heard  from  his  stepmother  and  Leon. 
Mrs.  Fierson  had  remarked  to  her:  — 

"  Yes,  every  house  has  its  skeleton,  only  it 
has  flesh  and  bones  in  this  case.  If  it  were  not 
for  Wayne  Pierson,  we  three  v;ould  be  perfectly 
happy.  My  husband  is  devoted  to  Leon,  and 
we  have  lovely  times  when  we  are  alone,  but 
Wayne  is  a  disturbing  element,  as  you  will  soon 
'iscover.  Lie  has  a  sullen,  jealous  tlisposition 
which  is  like  a  dark  cloud  in  our  home.  There 
is  always  some  difficulty  be*-ween  him  and  Leon 
on  account  of  it.  LI  is  temper  carries  him  to 
great  lengths  sometin^es.  I  will  admit  th^t 
Leon  is  a  sad  tease,  and  does  aggravate  him 
from  pure  love  of  fun.  Wayne  is  one  of  those 
fellows  who  cannot  take  a  joke,  sort  of  wooden, 
you  know,  and  Leon  does  love  a  joke.  If  it 
weren't  for  his  merry  brightness  I  don't  know 
what  would  become  of  us  sometimes.  But  the 
chief  trouble  grows  out  of  Wayne's  inordinate 
jealousy.  One  reason  for  that  is,  that  he  does 
no"  .earn  so  readily  as  Leon.  It  is  trying,  of 
course,  to  see  Leon  so  far  ahea  :  of  him,  getting 
jtraises  and  honors  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
The  poor  fellow  has  to  get  his  education  b\  the 
hardest.  1  don't  know  how  he  would  come 
out  if  it  were  not  for  Leon's  constant  help;  but 
let  me  tell  you  how  he  repays  liim." 

Then  followed  an  account  of  the  story  that 

8i 


M 


:IM 


')^ 


By    fJ^ay  of  the    IVilderncss. 

Leon  had  brought  home  that  he  had  been  locked 
into  his  room  by  Wayne  in  order  to  prevent 
his  being  present  at  that  important  closing 
recitation. 

All  this  d'd  not  have  the  effect  on  the  young 
girl  that  might  have  been  supposed.  Knid 
found  herself  believing,  despite  it  all,  in  the 
clear-eyed  young  man  who  sat  opposite  her  at 
table,  and  she  longed  to  put  some  brightness 
into  a  life  that  seemed  to  have  so  little.  She 
pitied  him  ;  and  Wayne  received  many  a  tele- 
graphic glance  of  sympathy  and  good-will  from 
the  lovely  innocent  eyes,  which  he  prized  more 
than  he  would  had  he  known  just  what  prompted 
them  ;  no  young  man  likes  to  be  pitied  by  a  girl. 

Enid  had  been  at  Beechwood  long  enough 
to  become  acquainted  with  Liph  ;  she  had  even, 
one  day,  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  skimming 
over  the  countrv  on  his  back  :  and  she  made 
many  a  visit  to  the  stable  during  his  master's 
absence,  to  take  him  a  dainty  bit.  So  her 
horror  and  indignation  were  almost  as  great 
as  Wayne's  when  she  saw  the  jaded  creature 
that  Leon  brought  home  after  his  wild  ride 
She  was  in  full  sympathy,  too,  with  the  owner 
of  the  beautiful  animal  in  the  debate  which 
followed. 

"  What    does   this    mean  ?     What    business 
had  you  to  take  my  horse  without  permission  ?" 
Wayne  thundered. 
82 


CSS. 


h]ni({. 


pung 
Knid 
m  the 
her  at 
htness 
.     She 
a  tele- 
11  from 
\  more 
Miipted 
V  a  girl. 
^Miough 
even, 
mming 
made 
aster's 
So    her 
great 
reature 
d  rid( 
I  owner 
which 


)usiness 


jsion 


Under  other  circumstances  Leon  would  prob- 
ably have  made  an  insolent  reply  ;  but  he  knew 
he  had  an  audience:  his  mother  and  Knid  were 
on  the  porch ;  so  in  a  smooth  calm  tone  he 
said :  — 

"  It  means,  my  beloved  brother,  that  I  had 
an  important  errand  at  Milburn.  My  horse 
had  lost  a  shoe  and  I  could  not  delay,  so  I  ven- 
tured upon  your  well-known  generosity,  and 
took  vours,  for  which  1  crave  your  royal  high- 
ness's  pardon." 

"  You  wretch  !  you  brute  !  "  burst  from 
Wayne's  lips.  ''  Look  at  him  !  he's  ruined  !  " 
'I'he  young  man  had  been  obliged  to  hold  him- 
self with  a  firm  hand  to  keep  from  seizing  the 
whip  and  laying  it  about  Leon  regardless  of 
consequences. 

The  rider  dismounted  leisurely  and  flung  the 
bridle  over  the  horse's  neck,  saying,  as  he  did 
so:  — 

"There!  I  was  going  to  take  him  to  his 
stable  and  make  him  as  good  as  new  ;  but  not 
after  such  abuse." 

As  usual,  Leon  appeared  to  his  mother,  who 
had  silently  listened,  to  be  the  injured  one; 
and  she  said  to   Knid  :  — 

"  There,  you  can  see  now  what  I  meant. 
Did  ever  any  one  hear  of  such  a  fit  of  anger 
over  so  small  a  thing!  he  is  always  just  so 
mean  and  disobliging.     Poor  Leon  !     it   seems 

83 


By   fl^ay  of  the   IVilderness. 


M. 


■  \ 


a  shame  that  his  home  should  be  made  un- 
pleasant by  that  fellow." 

Knid,  fearing  she  could  no  longer  repress 
her  indignation,  excused  herself  and  went  to 
her  room.  A  fc.v  minutes  later,  she  stole  away 
unperceived,  by  a  roundabout  way,  to  the 
stable.  She  stepped  back  when  she  reached 
the  door  and  saw  Wayne  with  his  head  bowed 
on  the  neck  of  the  horse  ;  when  he  lifted  it 
and  began  to  rub  Liph  down,  Enid  walked 
softly  in.  She  had  a  basket  in  her  hand  con- 
taining a  bottle  of  witch-hazel,  some  soft 
cloths,  and  a  few  kniips  of  sugar. 

"  I  couldn't  help  coming  to  try  to  do  some- 
thing for  poor,  dear  Liph,"  she  said,  coming 
to  the  horse's  side  and  patting  him.  "  It  was 
horrid  to  treat  him  so.  I  do  believe  Leon 
used  spurs,  cruel  fellow !  Liph's  great  eyes 
look  at  you  mournfully,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
ask :  "  Where  was  my  master  when  this  dread- 
ful  thing    happened  to  me  ? '  " 

If  Wayne  had  seen  Enid  approaching  in  the 
distance  he  would  probably  have  fastened  the 
stable  door,  for  he  wished  to  be  alone  with  his 
anger  and  grief  As  it  was,  he  would  not  trust 
himself  to  words.  The  feelings  that  surged 
within  him  could  find  no  fit  expression  for  in- 
nocent ears.  He  only  bowed  his  head  and 
tried  to  smile  when  iMiid  asked :  "  May  I  help 
you  comfort  poor  Liph  ?  " 

O    A 

04 


'SS. 


Enid. 


un- 
dress 
It   to 
away 
I    the 
iched 
owed 
:ed  it 
alked 
L  con- 
;    soft 

some- 
oming 
It  was 
1  .eon 
eyes 
ted  to 
dread- 
in  the 
•d  the 
ith  his 
it  trust 
irged 
\ox  in- 
id   and 
I  help 


He  could  but  smile  indeed,  when,  after  she 
had  bathed  the  wounds  made  by  the  spurs, 
she  poured  witch-hazel  Hberallv  over  the 
Hnen  cloth  and  washed  Liph's  face  as  If  he 
were  a  human,  drying  it  gently  with  anodic- 
cloth.  She  would  have  bathed  the  horse  from 
head  to  foot  in  the  refreshing  lotion  had  she 
been  allowed  to  do  so.  Then  she  combed 
and  stroked  his  silky  mane,  talking  fondly  to 
him  the  while,  and  plumping  lumps  of  sugar 
into  his  mouth.  Liph  was  already  looking 
brighter,  and  his  master  had  grown  calmer, 
when  Knid  vanished  noiselessly  as  she  had 
come ;  though  not  before  she  heard,  as  she 
went  out,  a  grateful  "  Thank  you  ever  so 
much." 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  Wayne  that  he  needed 
to  work  vigorously  for  a  time,  and  so  expend 
some  of  his  overwrought  feeling.  It  was  most 
aggravating  to  have  this  to  bear  without  hope 
of  redress  ;  but  there  was  no  hope  except  it 
might  be  through  a  hand-to-hand  encounter. 
Possibly  in  that  he  might  come  off  victor,  for 
he  had  grown  strong  and  become  a  skilled  ath- 
lete. His  lithe  slenderness  might  more  than 
match  Leon's  stouter  proportions;  but  the 
thought  of  seriously  entertaining  such  an  idea 
was  abhorrent  to  him.  Never  would  he  de- 
scend to  measures  of  that  iort  unless  self- 
defence  made  it  necessary. 


By    M^ay  of    the    JVilderness. 

The  next  afternoon,  which  was  the  Sabbath, 
Enid  had  estabHshed  herself  in  a  corner  of  the 
porch  with  a  book.  Mrs.  Pierson  hiy  in  a 
hammock  near  by,  dozing  and  reading  by  turns, 
when  Leon  came  out  and  asked  Enid  to  go 
with   him   for  a  row  on  the  river. 

"  Thank  you,  not  to-day,"  Enid  said ;  "  to- 
morrow, if  you  choose." 

Whereupon  Leon  struck  a  theatrical  attitude 
and  quoted :  — 

**  '  To-morrow,  did'st  thou  say  ? 

Go  to  —  I  will  not  hear  of  to-morrow  ! 
It  is  a  period  nowhere  to  be  found 
In  all  the  hoarv  register^  of  time. 
Unless,  perchance,  in  ihe  fool's  calendar,* 

"  But  to  come  down  to  everyday  prose,  I 
shall  be  away  to-morrow." 

"  Some  other  day,  then,"  persisted  Enid  ;  "  I 
really  cannot  go  to-day,  if  you  will  excuse  me." 

Leon  muttered  something  unintelligible  and 
strode  off  to  a  seat  under  a  tree  in  the  distance. 
His  mother  watched  him  uneasily,  then,  turn- 
ing to  Enid,  asked :  "  Why  did  you  not  go, 
dear?     Don't  you   like  the  water?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed  I  do,  very  much,  but  —  " 
and  Enid  hesitated,  then  went  bravely  on  :  "  I 
have  not  been  accustomed  to  going  out  rowing 
on  the  Sabbath.  Do  you  think  it  is  quite  right 
to  do  so  ?  " 
86 


?ss. 


EnicL 


*'to- 
titude 


•ose, 


I 


lid ;  "  I 

le  me." 

le  and 

stance. 

turn- 

ot  go, 


"I 


lut  — 

>n : 
[rowing 
te  right 


'5 


M 


"  You  dear  little  l\iritan  !  Why  not  ?  What 
could  be  quieter  than  floating  about  on  a  peace- 
ful river  talking  or  reading?  You  can  tak(! 
along  all  the  good  books   you   vvisl.." 

"  Yes,  but,"  Knid  said,  with  flushing  Tarn, 
"  I  have  lately  promised  to  li\'e  to  please  my 
Master,  the  Lord  Jesus.  I  am  not  sure  about 
this." 

"  Mv  dear  child,  your  mother  and  I  when 
we  were  girls  at  home  spent  almost  every  Sab- 
bath afternoon  in  summer  floating  about  in  a 
boat  on  a  little  lake.  It  never  crossed  our 
minds  that  we  were  doing  wrong.  We  turned 
out  to  be  rather  good  women,  did  we  not?  " 

The  sarcasm  was  jniinful  to  the  sensitive  girl, 
even  though  it  was  accompanied  by  a  smile. 

"  Besides,"  Mrs.  Pierson  went  on,  "  I  have 
always  supposed  that  Christian  service  meant 
doing  good  ti>  others.  If  so  innocent  a  thing 
as  this  will  keep  a  young  man  from  attending 
a  ball-game  on  the  Sabbath,  where  I  presume 
he  is  planning  this  minute  to  go,  it  would  seem 
that  it  was  certainly  right." 

While  Enid  hesitated,  Mrs.  Pierson  said  in 
a  softened  tone  :  "  We  mothers  have  a  good 
deal  of  anxious  thought  about  our  boys.  I 
hope,  dear,  if  you  can  find  it  in  your  conscience 
to  help  me  by  influencing  him  for  good  this 
afternoon,  you  will  do  so." 

Poor  Enid,  in  a  strait  betwixt  many  oppos- 

8/' 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


Its 

iii 


m 

!3.2 


m 


I- 


IM 
1.8 


1.25 

1.4      1.6 

6" 

► 

Photogra.phic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


li}i^Tfiti:iUmm»ii)it' 


SKA3^»m^«^.> 


ii 


I  I? 

,'v 

i  i'- 


By    Jl^ay  of  the    IVilderness, 

ing  thoughts,  began  to  feel  that  at  least  it  might 
be  right  to  heed  the  wishes  of  the  woman  in 
whose  care  she  had  been  placed  by  her  mother. 
Then,  if  she  could  really  do  good  by  going, 
was  it  not  her  duty  ?  And  yet,  with  a  tenderer 
conscience  and  a  more  logical  mind  than  her 
hostess,  there  arose  the  question  :  How  could 
she  influence  another  for  good  when  she  was 
by  her  own  standard  breaking  the  Sabbath  to 
accomplish  it?  The  conflict  ended  by  her 
going  down  to  tell  Leon  that  she  had  changed 
her  mind  and  would  go  with  him. 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  boat,  moving 
rapidly  to  long  strokes  of  the  oars  over  the 
smooth  water,  Leon  noticed  that  Enid  had  a 
book  on  her  lap. 

"  Upon  my  word !  "  he  exclaimed,  trying 
to  spell  out  the  title.  "'The  —  something  — 
Secret !  '  You're  a  sly  midget;  you've  brought 
along  a  paper-covered  novel,  —  French,  too,  I 
dare  say.  Ah!  these  demure  girls  —  they're 
deep  !  " 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you  ?  "  Enid  asked,  open- 
ing the  book. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course ;  I'm  always  ready  for 
a  novel  —  a  good  one." 

Whereupon  Enid  began  to  read  the  story 
of  a  young  man  who  early  in  life  had  a  vivid 
realization  that  he  was  a  soul ;  that  this  world 
was  not  his  permanent  home ;  that  just  over 

88 


ess. 


Rnid. 


loving 

er  the 

had  a 

trying 

ihig  — 
ought 

too,  I 
:hey're 

open- 

|dy  for 

story 
vivid 
world 
It  over 


a  boundary  line  was  the  other  world  to  which 
he  was  going,  and  it  was  everlasting.  To  Enid 
the  "  Christian's  Secret  of  a  Happy  Life  "  had 
lately  become  more  intensely  interesting  than 
a  novel  could  possibly  be.  She  forgot  her 
companion  as  she  read  on  with  glowing  face, 
until   Leon  exclaimed:  — 

"  Excuse  me,  but  how  much  of  that  trash 
do  you  think  my  good  nature  capable  of  en- 
during ?  A  *  happy  life,'  indeed  !  I  know  the 
secret  of  a  happy  life ;  it  is  to  have  all  the 
money  you  want,  go  where  you  please,  and  do 
what  you  please.  That  makes  a  good  time, 
which  of  course  includes  taking  a  pretty  girl 
out  boating ;  that  is,  if  she  isn't  poky.  See 
here,  seriously,  my  dear,  take  my  advice  and 
throw  that  book  into  the  river.  That  is  no 
sort  of  reading  for  you.  It  will  make  you 
into  a  disagreeable,  sanctimonious  old  maid. 
If  such  an  unnatural  prig  of  a  fellow  as 
that  book  describes  ever  lived,  he  ought 
to  have  been  tortured  until  he  got  some 
sense." 

During  this  tirade  Enid  read  quietly  to  her- 
self, as  if  she  did  not  hear  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Come,  now,  this  isn't  very  interesting," 
Leon  said,  after  a  silence.  "Can't  you  sing 
something  ? " 

Enid  did  not  feel  in  the  least  like  singing. 
Leon's  talk  had  been  an  offence  to  her.      But 

89 


I 


: illMBlOiilniuTr 


mmmm 


S>S:-"«-^.l^.'S 


By    IVay  of  the    IViUerness. 

the  remembrance  of  what  had  brought  her  out 
there  made  her  resolve  to  pass  it  over.  Her 
voice  was  sweet  and  well  trained.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  Leon  to  hear  it,  even  though  it  did 
sing  the  hymn  beginning:  — 

**  When  peace  like  a  river  attcndeth  my  way." 

That  finished,  she  began  one  of  which  Leon 
liked  the  melody,  and  he  sang  with  her.  When 
Mrs.  Pierson  heard  Enid's  sweet,  penetrating 
notes  and  Leon's  deep  bass  float  to  her  from 
the  distant  water,  in  the  hymn, 

**  O  day  of  rest  and  gladness, 
Most  beautiful,  most  bright  !  " 

she  smiled  and  congratulated  herself. 

Enid  was  on  the  alert  to  forestall  Leon's  se- 
lections, and  she  glided  into  another  song  as 
soon  as  one  was  finished.  But  in  the  midst  of 
a  strain  he  suddenly  broke  out  in  a  secular  sen- 
timental song  which  had  not  even  merit  to  com- 
mend it.  Of  course  Enid  did  not  sing  with 
him.  That  vexed  him,  and  snatches  of  all  the 
foolish  songs  that  floated  through  his  memory 
were  given.  Then  college  songs,  uproarious 
and  bordering  on  coarseness,  were  shouted  out, 
while  he  enjoyed  to  the  utmost  Enid's  troubled 
face.  She  begged  him  to  stop,  but  he  only 
90 


Enid. 

laughed  and  sang  the  louder.     Then  sh( 
indignant,  and  told  him  he  was  rude ;  and^  his 
reply  was  :  — 

vexed'^*    ^"^   ^''''    ^°''''   P'""^  '^''^"    ^°^''^^ 


grew 


\* 


91 


ir 


!     '1 


1 


'M:: 


rae 


:r^^^g-na 


VII. 


^  Fateful  Letter. 

BY  this  time  the  rising  tide  had  changed 
the  smooth  surface  of  the  water,  and 
the  sky  had  begun  to  darken. 

"  You    must   turn    about   at  once,'* 
Enid  said,  glancing  at  the  threatening  clouds. 

"  Must !  Indeed  !  Nobody  says  *  must '  to 
me.  Say,  *  Please  take  me  home,  that's  a  dear,' 
and  I'll  do  it." 

But  the  girl  was  silent.  It  began  to  dawn 
on  her  tormentor  that  she  was  really  becoming 
frightened.  Here  was  a  fine  opportunity  to 
tease,  and  to  bring  down  Miss  Enid's  dignity 
at  the  same  time.  It  would  be  delicious,  he 
told  himself,  to  see  her  with  tearful  face,  beg- 
ging him  to  protect  her.  When  a  distant  roll 
of  thunder  was  heard  he  examined  the  sky  with 
mock  anxiety,  then  swiftly  turned  the  boat 
about  as  if  they  were  in  great  danger,  and  he 
rowed  with  mad  haste  till  the  boat  reared  and 
plunged  like  a  living  thing.  It  was  on  the 
verge  of  upsetting  several  times,  and  the  water 
dashed  in  over  Enid,  who,  though  pale  with 
92 


A  Fateful  Letter. 


langea 
r,  and 

once," 
aids, 
ast'  to 
dear,' 

dawn 
oming 
ity   to 
ignity 
|us,  he 
,beg- 
Int  roll 
y  with 
boat 
nd  he 
d  and 
n   the 
water 
with 


fear,  held  a  strong  rein  over  herself,  resolved 
that  Leon  should  not  be  gratified  by  one  be- 
seeching look.  She  knew  that  all  this  tossing 
about  was  unnecessary,  and  it  roused  her  indig- 
nation. The  instant  the  boat  grated  on  the 
sands  she  sprang  out.  Leon  clutched  at  her 
arm  to  detain  her,  but  she  broke  away  and  ran 
swiftly  up  the  hill. 

For  once  Leon  was  checkmated  ;  he  had 
meant  to  make  it  all  up  with  her  on  the  home- 
ward walk.  The  rest  of  the  fun  would  be  to 
see  her  beautiful  eyes  look  forgiveness  into  his 
own.  The  path  that  led  to  the  pine  woods  was 
hidden  from  Leon's  view  by  a  bend  in  the  road, 
and  Enid  turned  in  here,  thinking  to  escape  him. 

Wayne  was  accustomed  to  go  to  his  green 
retreat  on  Sabbath  afternoons  with  his  Bible,  to 
keep  up  a  boyish  practice,  and  worship  in  this 
quiet  place  —  not  his  Lord,  but  the  memory  of 
his  mother.  He  went  over  then  the  chapters 
they  used  to  read  together,  recalling  some  of 
her  dear  words.  Perhaps  the  seed  thus  sown 
would  yet  blossom  and  bear  fruit. 

He  was  amazed  that  afternoon  to  see  Enid 
rush  suddenly  in  between  the  tree-trunks, 
throw  herself  down  at  the  foot  of  one,  and 
burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  weeping.  Evidently 
she  thought  herself  alone.  He  must  let  her 
know  to  the  contrary,  but  he  hesitated  to  in- 
terrupt those  tears.     It  must  do  one  good  to 

93, 


mm 


'I     i 


r\     I 


111 


») 


1; 


U 


By    Jf^ay  of  the    IVihkrness, 

cry  liice  that ;  however,  he  rose  and  went  toward 
her.  When  Enid  heard  the  crackHng  twigs, 
she  started  up  as  if  to  run,  but,  seeing  Wayne, 
sank  down  again,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

*'  I'm  glad  it's  you,"  came  a  muffled  voice, 
presently,  "and  not  that  —  that  torment!  I 
know  you  must  think  me  very  silly  to  cry  at 
this  rate,  but  I  have  got  going  and  can't  stop." 

"What  has  happened?  Why!  you  are  wet; 
what  can  1  do  for  you  ?  "  Wayne  asked  all  in  a 
breath. 

"Nothing,  thank  you,"  she  said,  putting  back 
her  stray  locks ;  "  I  shall  run  up  to  the  house 
in  a  minute,  when  there  is  no  danger  of  being 
overtaken.  The  wet  will  not  hurt  me,  and 
nobody  can  do  anything,  anyway  ;  I  must  en- 
dure it  Vy'hile  I  stay.  Oh,  that  disagreeable 
fellow  !  "  A  sympathetic  listener  was  a  temp- 
tation, and  Enid  gave  an  account  of  the  trials 
of  the  afternoon,  adding :  "  But  after  all  I  am 
troubled  most  at  my  own  self.  I  ought  not  to 
have  gone  on  Sunday.  And  then  I  got  so 
fearfully  angry  at  Leon  —  I  didn't  know  before 
that  I  could  hate  anybody." 

"The  brute  !  "  Wayne  exclaimed;  "  he  ought 
to  be  —  "  Just  then  the  pine  boughs  parted  and 
Leon's  dark  face  looked  in.  He  had  heard 
Wayne's  last  remark,  and  guessed  who  was 
meant. 

94 


ness. 

toward 

twigs, 

Vayne, 

x\v  her 

I  voice, 
;nt !  I 
I  cry  at 
:  stop." 
ire  wet ; 
all  in  a 

ng  back 
z  house 
»f  being 
ne,  and 
ust  en- 
reeable 
temp- 
e  trials 
II  I  am 
It  not  to 
got  so 
before 

|e  ought 
*ted  and 
heard 
^ho  was 


A  Fateful  Letter. 


: 


J    I 


"  You  puppy  !  "  he  roared,  shaking  his  fist 
in  Wayne's  face;  "I'll  teach  you  to  interfere 
in  my  affiiirs.  Get  out  of  here,  or  I'll  put  you 
out ! 

Wayne's  answer  was  a  look  from  bright,  reso- 
lute eyes,  as  he  braced  himself  against  a  huge 
tree.  He  was  not  averse  to  punishing  Leon 
for  abusing  his  horse  if  it  could  be  done  in  self- 
defence,  so  he  waited. 

Leon  made  a  bound  toward  him  and  put  out 
a  hand,  but  Enid  sprang  between  them. 

"  Don't !  "  she  cried;  "strike  me,  if  you  must 
strike." 

Leon  gazed  for  an  instant  at  the  slender  girl 
with  her  glowing  face  and  white  robes,  admiring 
her  in  spite  of  himself,  then  he  laughed  sneer- 
ingly  and  motioned  her  aside.  At  this  moment, 
however,  footsteps  and  voices  were  heard  draw- 
ing near.  The  storm  had  gone  round,  the  sun 
was  shining,  and  Mrs.  Pierson  with  a  stranger 
was  seen  approaching. 

Enid  fled  at  once,  and  Wayne  stepped  be- 
hind a  large  tree. 

"  Leon,  dear,"  his  mother  said,  "  this  is 
Judge  Kemp,  your  father's  old  friend,  who 
has  kindly  stopped  on  his  way  North,  to  see 
us.  We  are  in  search  of  you  to  walk  with  us 
to  the  beach."  A  fortunate  interruption,  for 
both  young  men  were  in  the  mood  for  a  con- 
flict. 

95 


■^ISHP 


'   l;l|,.!l 


I 


1  t. 
)  i 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

The  next  morning's  mail  brought  a  letter 
to  Wayne  which  pleased  him.  It  was  an  in- 
vitation from  a  college  friend  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer with  him  at  his  fither's  summer  home  in 
the  mountains.  This  was  exactly  to  Wayne's 
mind ;  his  friend  was  most  congenial,  and  th .; 
visit  would  take  him  away  from  the  place  mat 
was  becoming  intolerable.  He  would  have  gone 
almost  anywhere,  though,  until  the  opening  of 
college.  A  letter  asking  his  father's  approval 
was  despatched  at  once ;  and  the  reply  came 
in  a  few  cold  words,  saying  that,  if  he  could 
not  treat  his  mother  with  respect,  his  absence 
in  the  home  was  certainly  more  to  be  desired 
than  his  presence.  The  father,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, received  an  account  of  his  son's 
offence,  but  not  of  the  apologv.  To  do  Mrs. 
Pierson  justice,  though,  her  conscience  after- 
ward made  her  promise  to  tell  him  when  he 
should  come  home. 

Wayne  waited  only  to  place  Liph  under  the 
care  of  his  former  owner,  and  one  bright  sum- 
mer morning  set  off  on  his  journey  almost 
light-hearted ;  he  was  disappointed,  though,  in 
not  seeing  Enid  to  bid  her  good-by.  It  was 
quite  early,  but  she  often  got  out  for  a  run 
before  breakfast ;  and  now  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  in  the  distance,  seeming  in  her  green 
dress  and  cap  like  a  part  of  the  shrubbery. 

"  I   never  before  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 

96. 


ness. 

letter 
an  \n- 
e  sum- 
oiiie  in 
/^ayne's 
nd  th  ; 
.ce  mat 
/^e  gone 
ling  of 
;»proval 
y  came 
;  could 
absence 
desired 

be  re- 
js   son's 
Mrs. 
after- 
nen  he 

der  the 

It  sum- 
almost 

ugh,  in 
It  was 
a  run 
limpse 

•  green 

ry. 
meet- 


A  Fateful  Letter. 


o 


ing  the  dryad  who  presides  over  this  wood  in 
her  very  temple,"  Wayne  said,  as  he  drew  near, 
with  a  knightly  bow. 

"That  is  only  because  you  don't  get  up 
early  enough.  She  is  often  around  at  sunrise." 
Then  more  seriously,  Enid  said  :  "  1  shall  be 
gone  when  vou  come  back.  How  nice  it 
would  be  if  you  were  to  stay  and  somebody 
else  were  to  go.  I  have  been  wanting  to  speak 
to  vou  alone  ever  since  Sunday,  and  tell  you 
how  much  I  liked  to  have  you  plant  yourself 
against  that  tree  and  stand  firm  when  ordered 
ort-'your  own  grounds.     It  was  splendid." 

"  And  I  have  wanted  to  see  you  to  tell  you 
how  grateful  I  am  that  you  risked  your  life  to 
save  my  own." 

They  both  laughed  then,  a  merry,  care-free 
laugh,  such  as  Wayne  seldom  indulged  in. 
The  young  man  reached  and  broke  a  small 
sprig  from  a  tall  cedar,  saying,  as  he  handed 
it  to  Enid  :  — 

"  Keep  that  till  1  see  you  again, —  I  wonder 
when  it  will  be,  —  and  believe  that  my  friend- 
ship for  you  is  like  this  tree,  fragrant  and  per- 
ennial.    Now  can't  I  have  a  keepsake  ?  " 

Enid  knew  where  a  stray  rosebush  hid  itself, 
and  she  disappeared  a  moment,  returning  with 
a  lovely  wild  rose.  Wayne  placed  it  in  his  coat. 
Hien  they  shook  hands  and  he  was  gone.  The 
wood-nymph  went  her  way  feeling  lonelv. 

97 


k.  ■-*r.'.i««*»-V  L.  3"  ■  ■-  ?*.  ;.T%._j- 


..SSMCM 


w 


:r: 


By    IVay  of  the    IVildcrncss. 

Leon  Hamilton  had  not  the  habit  of  liquor 
drinking  so  fixed  upon  him  that  he  used  it 
daily  ;  as  yet  he  indulged  only  at  intervals,  or 
when  tempted  by  dissolute  associates.  This 
being  the  case,  it  was  easy  through  that  sum- 
mer to  delude  his  stepfather  into  believing 
that  his  habits  were  correct.  A  safety-valve 
was  afforded  him  by  short  absences,  when  he 
went  on  what  he  called  "  a  lark,"  returning 
apparently  as  usual.  He  improved  every  op- 
portunity in  Wayne's  absence  to  strengthen 
Mr.  Pierson's  belief  in  him ;  to  stand  high 
in  his  regard  was  worth  working  for.  Who 
could  tell  but  that  if  he  manoeuvred  wisely, 
the  greater  part  of  the  estate  would  fall  to 
him  ?  Therefore  it  was  as  if  the  young  man's 
character  hastened  to  throw  on  a  mask  at  the 
approach  of  his  stepfather ;  each  day  he  wel- 
comed him  smilingly,  as  if  his  home-coming 
was  what  he  most  longed  for.  He  read  up 
the  daily  news  for  no  other  reason  but  to  be 
companionable  to  this  man  of  affairs,  and  noth- 
ing could  exceed  his  delicate  thoughtfulness ; 
he  was  ever  on  the  alert  to  perform  some  ser- 
vice, and  so  cheerfully  that  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  receive  a  favor  from   him. 

As  a  consequence  the  atmosphere  of  home 
was  delightful  to  the  tired  man,  whose  life 
went  on  its  busy  way,  be  it  summer  or 
winter,  and   he  was  wont    to   sigh  when    con- 

98 


ness. 

liquor 

ised  it 

als,  or 

This 

:  sum- 

lieving 

^-valve 

len   he 

urning 

;ry  op- 

ngthen 

i    high 

Who 

wisely, 

fall    to 

man's 

at  the 

wel- 

oming 

ad  up 

to  be 

noth- 

Iness ; 

ne  ser- 

easure 

home 
se   life 
er     or 
con- 


A   Fateful  Letter. 


\: 


trasting  his  silent,  reserved  son  with  this,  his 
other  son. 

It  was  unfortunate  thai  circumstances  had 
seemed  always  to  conspire  to  aid  the  young 
man  in  the  course  of  deception  which  had  now 
become  second  nature.  Years  before,  he  had 
overheard  Wayne's  father  tell  him  that  he  should 
listen  to  no  complaints  ;  this  and  Wayne's  si- 
lence had  encouraged  him  in  lawless  conduct, 
carefully  concealed  from  the  father.  The  pres- 
ent summer,  too,  was  no  exception.  Enid  had 
too  much  delicacy  of  feeling  to  hint  by  word 
or  look  to  her  host  and  hostess  that  her  visit 
was  made  intolerable  by  Leon's  insolence  and 
tyranny.  She  simply  cut  it  short  as  soon  as 
possible. 

Autumn  found  the  young  men  in  their  ac- 
customed places  in  the  university.  Wayne, 
refreshed  by  his  outing,  prepared  to  enter  upon 
the  year's  study  with  zeal.  Like  most  earnest 
souls,  when  starting  afresh,  he  had  fortified  him- 
self by  many  resolves.  He  would  try  to  curb 
the  fierce  anger  which  Leon's  insolence  always 
awakened.  He  would  hold  himself  so  high 
above  his  persecutions  that  they  would  cease 
to  annoy.  It  was  only  a  year;  then  he  should 
cut  loose  from  his  father's  house  forever.  The 
thought  of  trying  to  make  his  stepbrother  dif- 
ferent never  crossed  the  young  man's  mind. 
It  would   have   seemed   to  him   like  changing 

99 


w 


!!! 


\^X\  - 


i  IP'; 


^■1     ; 


m  ■ 


^')  ^. 


I " 


^j/    IVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

Ethiopian  skins  and  leopard  spots.  It  is  Chris- 
tians only  who  have  love  enough  and  faith 
enough  to  dare  hope  for  such.  He  also  de- 
cided that  it  was  useless  to  try  to  enlighten  his 
father  as  to  Leon.  A  wall  of  prejudice,  strong 
and  high,  was  in  the  way.  Perhaps,  too,  Leon 
had  learned  his  lesson,  and  it  would  not  be 
necessary. 

Scarcely  a  month  had  passed,  however,  when 
the  attention  of  the  faculty  was  again  called  to 
the  same  clique  of  disorderly  students  who  had 
annoyed  them  the  year  before.  They  deter- 
mined to  break  up  this  state  of  affairs,  and  had 
been  cautiously  watching  and  taking  notes  of 
certain  men  who  supposed  their  midnight  rev- 
ellings  had  been  carried  on  with  great  secrecy. 
Leon  had  joined  himself  to  the  wild  set,  and 
was  one  of  those  who  received  a  reprimand  and 
warning. 

It  so  happened  one  Friday  that  Leon  reached 
home  just  as  the  mail  arrived ;  he  received  it, 
and  looked  over  the  letters.  There  was  one 
that  startled  him.  It  was  in  the  peculiar  up- 
right handwriting  of  the  dean  of  the  university, 
and  was  addressed  to  his  stepfather.  This  was 
suspicious  just  at  this  time,  and  boded  no  good 
to  himself.  He  quickly  slipped  it  into  his 
pocket,  placing  the  others  on  the  tray  which 
stood  on  a  hall  table.  Hurrying  to  his  room, 
he  carefully  opened  the  envelope,  slipped  out 
100 


Chris- 
faith 
so  de- 
:en  his 
strong 
,  Leon 
not  be 

■,  when 
lied  to 
ho  had 
detcr- 
nd  had 
Dtes  of 
iht  rev- 
ecrecy. 
and 
d  and 

eached 
ved  it, 
is  one 
ar  up- 
ersity, 
■lis  was 
jood 
to  his 
which 
room, 
d  out 


^  Fateful  Letter. 


the  letter,  and  read  what  brought  a  deeper  flush 
to  his  face,  and  called  forth  that  long,  low  whis- 
tle of  his,  a  sign  that  he  was  in  what  he  would 
have  called  "  a  hole."  The  paragraph  which 
was  of  chief  interest  to  him  read:  — 

"  We  regret  to  inform  you  that  your  son 
Leon  is  not  applying  himself  to  study  as  he 
should.  We  fear,  too,  that  he  is  forming  habits 
of  dissipation.  Possibly  a  word  from  you,  joined 
to  the  admonition  he  has  already  received,  may 
make  an  impression  for  good.  We  trust  so ; 
for  the  suspension  of  a  young  man  so  bright 
and  attractive,  especially  one  connected  with 
yourself,  would  give  us  much  pain.  For  your 
son  Wayne,  on  the  contrary,  we  have  nothing 
but  praise ;  he  is  an  honor  to  our  institution, 
and  a  young  man  of  much  promise  in  every 
way." 

Leon  knit  his  brows  in  perplexity  over  this 
letter  ;  his  first  thought  was  to  destroy  it.  But 
of  what  use  would  that  be  ?  Another  could  be 
sent  in  its  place  —  though  of  course  he  should 
be  more  careful  in  future,  and  not  give  those 
old  donkeys  a  chance  to  pry  into  his  affairs  ; 
of  turning  squarely  about  and  being  different 
he  had  no  intention.  Suddenly  there  flashed 
into  his  mind  a  plan.  This  letter  might  be 
so  managed  that  it  would  actually  serve  his 
own  interests  instead  of  condemning  him.  And 
yet  he  hesitated.     He  did  not  intend  to  be 

lOI 


><»  WI-.  . 


f'il 


.:i!ri 


"!i 


■Uii 


W\ 


''    1 


I  ' 


By    Ji^ay  of  the    JVilderness, 

wholly  bad ;  his  falsehoods  were  often  incon- 
sequent talk  which  one  might  take  seriously  or 
otherwise;  but  to  tamper  with  the  mail  was, 
even  to  his  irresponsible  nature,  not  a  light 
matter.  Still,  it  would  be  an  excellent  oppor- 
tunity to  pay  off  some  grudges  toward  Wayne, 
and  also  aid  perhaps  in  what  he  had  wished  for 
so  long,  which  was  an  open  rupture  between 
father  and  son,  ending  in  Wayne's  leaving 
home.  Then  he  should  have  no  spy  upon  his 
actions. 

It  should  be  done.  Without  further  hesita- 
tion he  carefullv  erased  the  two  names  :  then 
as  carefully  —  and  he  was  skilled  in  the  imita- 
tion of  handwriting-  substituted  Wayne  for 
Leon  and  Leon  for  Wayne.  Even  then  there 
was  a  risk  in  letting  it  go;  his  stepfather  might 
go  up  to  the  university  and  have  an  interview 
with  the  faculty,  then  the  truth  would  come 
out  —  he  had  no  fears  because  of  altering  the 
letter,  that  would  naturally  be  charged  to  a  slip 
of  the  writer's  pen.  However,  there  were  risks 
anyway.  That  sharp-eyed  dean  might  swoop 
down  upon  them  at  Beechwood.  Then  what  ? 
However,  knowing  father  and  son  as  he  did, 
the  chances  were  that  it  would  bring  on  a 
fracas,  and  there  would  be  no  interview  with 
the  dean  ;  Mr.  Pierson  was  too  busy  and  too 
[iroud.  The  matter  decided,  he  resealed  the 
letter  and  returned  it  to  its  place  on  the  tray, 
102 


fCSS. 

ncon- 
sly  or 
I  was, 
light 
>ppor- 
/ayne, 
ed  for 
itween 
eaving 
lon  his 

hesita- 
;    then 
imita- 
ne  for 
there 
might 
:erview 
come 
g  the 
a  slip 
;  risks 
swoop 
what  ? 
e  did, 
on    a 
with 
bd  too 
d  the 
tray, 


^  Fateful  Letter. 


biding  his  time,  not  without  much  uneasiness, 
it  must  be  confessed. 

Wayne  had  not  been  unaware,  during  the 
month,  of  Leon's  conduct,  and  a  report  had 
come  to  him  within  a  day  or  two  that  large 
sums  of  money  had  been  put  up  by  him  at  the 
gaming-table.  Wayne's  conscience  troubled 
him.  What  if  his  father  had  been  unjist  to 
him  ;  he  could  not  retaliate,  —  not  upon  father, 
v'hose  head  was  growing  gray,  —  he  must  and 
would  tell  him  of  Leon's  misdoings  at  once. 

Mr.  Pierson  was  in  the  habit  of  deferring  the 
opening  of  hi*^  evening  mail  until  after  dinner, 
when  he  retired  to  the  quiet  of  the  library,  where 
he  was  left  undisturbed  an  hour  or  two.  He 
had  not  been  long  there  on  the  evening  the 
dean's  letter  was  received,  when  Wayne  came 
in,  saying,  "  Father,  can  I  speak  with  you  a 
few  minutes  ?  " 

His  father  looked  at  him  coldly,  making  no 
answer.  Wayne  shut  the  door,  came  over  to 
a  seat  near  him,  and  began  :  — 

"  Father,  as  long  as  1  was  the  only  one  to  suf- 
fer I  have  been  silent  regarding  Leon  Hamilton, 
but  now  that  your  own  interests  are  in  danger,  I 
must  speak."  He  told  his  story  then  in  as  few 
words  as  possible,  while  the  father  gazed  at  him 
in  utter  amazement,  interrupting  him  at  last, 
and  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  anger  exclaimed  :  — 

"And  you  expect  me   to  believe  all   this! 

103 


■^l 


h  n 


By    JVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

What  duplicity  !  —  and  a  son  of  mine!  It  is 
a  most  likely  story,  sir,  that  you  would  not 
have  informed  me  long  ago  had  this  been  true. 
It  is  simply  a  plot  to  divert  suspicion  from 
yourself  I  have  abundant  proof  that  you  are 
the  guilty  one."  The  father  almost  groaned 
out  the  last  words,  while  the  veins  stood  out 
like  cords  on  his  forehead. 

It  was  Wayne's  turn  to  sit  stupefied  with 
horror  and  surprise.  Before  he  could  speak 
again  his  father  said,  in  a  voice  that  Wayne 
scarcely  recognized :  — 

"  Leave  me  alone."  The  son  tried  to  pro- 
test, but  his  father  waved  him  away  with  an 
imperative  —  "  Go  !  " 

Then  the  door  was  locked  after  him,  and  the 
strong  man  bowed  his  head  in  grief  such  as  he 
had  known  but  once  before  in  his  life. 

How  could  it  be  that  his  boy  had  come  to 
this  !  Was  it  his  father's  fault  .^  Had  he  been 
unfaithful  to  his  high  trust  ?  The  back  years 
came  and  passed  in  review  like  a  panorama ; 
his  mistakes  were  sharply  outlined.  He  seemed 
to  see  again  the  boy's  mother,  as  she  lay  dying 
that  summer  morning,  lift  pleading  eyes  to  his 
face, and  murmur  with  her  last  breath,"  Be  gentle 
with  our  boy  "  —  the  boy's  eyes  were  like  hers. 
No,  he  had  not  been  gentle,  he  had  been  harsh 
and  impatient ;  his  son  had  been  unhappy  ;  and 
he  had  not  cared.  It  was  too  late  now.  The 
104 


ness. 

It  is 
Id  not 
n  true, 
ti  from 
'ou  are 
jroaned 
od  out 

;d  with 

speak 

Wayne 

to  pro- 
*vith  an 

and  the 
as  he 

ome  to 
le  been 
years 
lorama ; 
jeemed 
dying 
to  his 
gentle 
;e  hers, 
harsh 
;  and 
The 


A  Fateful  Letter. 


years  had  made  their  record,  the  books  were 
closed,  and  the  boy  was  as  he  was. 

There  was  no  sleep  for  Wayne  that  night. 
The  time  he  had  thought  a  year  away  had  come. 
He  must  go.  Before  midnight  his  trunk  was 
packed,  and  all  arrangements  for  a  sudden  de- 
parture completed.  That  done,  he  went  out  for 
a  last  visit  to  the  woods.  The  mc^on  shone 
solemnly  down  into  the  still  place,  stiU  but  for 
the  murmured  song  of  a  wakeful  bird. 

As  Wayne  stood  and  took  a  silent  farewell, 
he  heard  footsteps,  and  there  in  the  open  moon- 
lit space  was  his  father,  walking  back  and  forth 
with  bowed  head  —  no  sleep  for  him  either.  And 
then  to  the  watching  son  there  came  a  flood 
of  tenderness,  a  remnant  of  boyish  fondness, 
and  he  rushed  out  —  the  anger  gone  from  his 
heart  —  crying  :  "  Father,  father  !  There  is 
some  terrible  mistake  !  Can't  we  love  each 
other  again?     What  can  I  do  to  —  " 

"  You  can  take  yourself  out  of  my  sight," 
came  in  a  loud,  angry  tone  from  the  father. 
There!  It  was  out!  —  and  he  had  meant  to 
try  to  be  forgiving  —  but  "  the  boy  "  was  gone. 
Gone  indeed,  a  few  minutes  later,  for  he  stepped 
upon  the  night  express  and  was  borne  swiftly 
away. 


105 


JMJP 


XirftSiw*,, 


^    ifj: 

5': 


N  f 


!     "J 


i  \' 


VIII. 

The  "  Upper  Deestrict,'''' 

THOUGH  he  should  live  to  be  a  hun- 
dred years  old,  Wayne  Pierson  be- 
lieved that  he  could  never  experience 
a  more  utter  sense  of  desolation  than 
took  possession  of  him  that  night  when  he 
boarded  the  midnight  train,  stumbled  over 
grips  and  handbags  into  a  seat,  and  drew  his 
hat  down  to  conceal  his  face  as  much  as  possi- 
ble. He  believed  that  his  brain  was  clear,  but 
in  reality  it  was  in  a  whirl.  His  thoughts  ran 
riot  about  one  point.  It  had  come  !  he  was 
homeless,  friendless,  alone  !  He  had  imagined 
such  an  experience  more  than  once  ;  gone  over, 
indeed,  every  slightest  possibility  of  that  way, 
but  always,  he  knew  now,  with  an  undertone 
conviction  that  it  would  never  come  to  him. 
Why  should  Wayne  Pierson,  the  only  son  of 
a  man  whom  he  often  of  late  years  heard  spoken 
of  as  the  most  eminent  lawyer  in  the  state,  ever 
be  homeless  and  friendless  ?  Yet  here  he  was, 
deserted  !  His  getting  ready  had  been  done 
in  a  maze.  He  had  packed  his  trunk,  it  is 
1 06 


iiw 


but 
ran 
was 
lijTined 
over, 
way, 
rtone 
him. 
on  of 
oken 
ever 
e  was, 
done 
it  is 


-) 


The   ''  Upper  Dee  strict'' 

true;  but  if  it  had  not  been  pitiful  it  would 
have  been  amusing,  the  things  that  went  into 
it.  Most  of  his  everyday  needs  were  at  the 
universitv,  whither  he  had  carried  them  by  dc- 
grees  through  the  years,  always  taking  from 
home  a  full  valise  and  bringing  it  back  nearly 
empty.  Yet  when  one  is  going  to  leave  home 
for  good,  one  must  of  course  take  one's  trunk, 
so  he  packed  it.  There  were  books,  of  course  ; 
Wayne  Pierson  never  went  anywhere  without 
books  ;  he  made  no  effort  to  choose,  but  swept 
in  those  that  happened  to  be  lyin^^i;  about  his 
room.  There  was  also  a  pile  of  old  music,  se- 
lected in  the  same  way.  Then  there  followed 
miscellaneous  articles.  A  small  box  contain- 
ing relics  of  a  Noah's  Ark  that  had  been  dear 
to  his  childhood ;  most  of  the  animals  were 
maimed,  and  part  of  the  ark  itself  was  miss- 
ing. The  young  man  could  not  have  told 
why  he  packed  it,  but  the  fiict  remains  that 
while  he  mechanically  tossed  in  any  articles  of 
clothing  that  his  eyes  happened  to  fall  upon, 
and  made  no  attempt  to  plan  for  that  or  the 
coming  season,  he  deliberately  climbed  to  the 
highest  shelf  of  his  full  closet  and  brought 
down  that  Noah's  Ark  and  packed  it  with 
some  care.  There  was  also  the  little  box  con- 
taining the  bit  of  ribbon  and  the  half-worn 
gloves  and  the  dust  of  a  flower  or  two  that  his 
mother's  hands  had  touched ;  there  was  a  pho- 

107 


■  Vl; 


li 


\ 
I: 


l„  .' 


By    ff^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

tograph  of  his  father,  taken  for  his  mother  but 
a  little  while  before  she  went  away  ;  an  excel- 
lent picture  of  Aunt  Crete,  the  only  photo- 
graph she  could  ever  be  persuaded  to  sit  for ; 
and  there  were  half  a  dozen  pictures  of  his 
mother,  representing  her  when  she  was  a  fair, 
girlish  bride,  then  a  mother  with  her  baby  in 
her  arms,  then  a  matron  with  the  halo  of  a 
coming  glory  already  foreshadowing  her  face, 
and  with  a  pale,  solemn-eyed  boy  clinging  to 
her.  These  were  carefully  selected,  but  the 
other  things  merely   happened. 

He  had  packed  his  trunk,  but  it  had  all 
seemed  unreal.  Even  when  he  called  Jonas 
and  directed  that  the  trunk  be  taken  to  the 
station  for  the  midnight  express,  and  Jonas 
had  answered  with  his  usual  respect,  "  Yes, 
sir ;  and  where  will  I  check  it  to,  Mr. 
Wayne  ? "  he  had  been  dazed.  He  had 
looked  at  Jonas  as  one  in  a  dream,  and  re- 
peated mechanically,  "  Check  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Jonas ;  "  will  I  check 
it  for  you  ?  Have  you  got  your  ticket, 
Mr.  Wayne?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Wayne,  trying  to  rouse  him- 
self to  the  occasion,  "  never  mind  the  check, 
Jonas,  I  will  be  down  there  to  see  to  it."  But 
he  had  not  seen  to  it ;  the  baggageman  at  the 
station,  who  of  course  knew  all  the  Piersons, 
had  done  it  for  him. 
io8 


uss. 


lad  all 
Jonas 
to  the 
Jonas 
"  Yes, 
,    Mr. 
e    had 
nd  re- 
check 
ticket, 

him- 

check, 

But 

at  the 

arsons, 


i 


The   ''  Upper  Dee  strict ^ 

"  You're  too  late  to  check,  sir,"  he  had  said, 
hurrying  up,  "  the  check  office  isn't  open  here 
for  the  night  train  ;  but  I'll  mark  your  trun'K 
for  you  and  have  it  put  on,  and  it  will  be  all 
right.     You're  going  up  to  town,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"No,"  said  W  /ne,  speaking  with  a  sharp- 
ness that  startled  himself;  "  I'm  not  going  to 
town,  that  is,  I'm  not  going  to  stop;  mark 
it  for  —  for  Chicago."  It  was  the  only  name 
he  could  recall.  The  baggage-master  looked 
bewildered. 

"  You  can't  do  anything  of  that  kind,  you 
know,"  he  said,  looking  closely  at  Wayne  — 
and  when  he  thought  it  over  afterward,  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "If  it  had  been  the 
other  one,  I  should  think  he  had  had  a  drop 
too  much,  but  that  isn't  this  one's  stamp.  —  I 
can't  be  sure  of  the  trunk  without  a  check 
farther  than  the  Junction." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Wayne,"  mark  it  'the 
Junction,'  then,  it  doesn't  signify."  It  seemed 
to  him  such  a  trivial  matter  how  his  trunk  was 
marked  or  what  became  of  it.  He  was  in 
no  clearer  frame  of  mind  when  the  conductor 
touched  his  arm  and  demanded  a  ticket. 

"  Ticket }  "  he  said  vaguely,  "  I  have  no 
ticket." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  conductor,  sharply, 
"  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it .?  Am  I 
to  put  you  off  the  train  ?  " 

109 


'j  -  . 


:ii 


N  i: 


■It    I 

f1;  ' 


■i: ; 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

Then  Wayne  forced  himself  to  attend  to 
business.  He  explained  that  he  had  not  had 
time  to  buy  his  ticket,  and  mentioned  Chicago 
again  as  the  place  toward  which  he  was  travel- 
ling; and  was  informed  that  he  could  pay  as 
far  as  the  Junction,  which  they  reached  soon 
after  daylight,  and  there  he  would  better  get  off 
and  buy  a  ticket. 

Wayne  vaguely  remembered  that  his  friend, 
the  baggage-master,  had  said  something  about 
the  Junction,  and  agreed  to  this  plan.  Then 
he  settled  himself  for  a  night  of  misery.  A 
whole  lifetime  of  pain  could  be  lived  through 
between  midnight  and  daylight ;  and  who 
should  have  miserable  thoughts  if  not  one 
who  had  just  cut  himself  loose  from  all  that 
had  heretofore  been  his  life  ?  He  leaned  his 
head  against  the  car  window,  drawing  his  hat 
still  further  over  his  face,  and  prepared  to  go 
over  the  bitter  story  of  his  wrongs.  And  then, 
in  less  than  five  minutes,  he  went  into  one  of 
the  soundest  sleeps  he  had  ever  taken  in  his 
life.  He  was  young,  remember,  and  the  day 
had  been  filled  with  strains  of  one  sort  and 
another,  culminating  in  that  latest  one  which 
had  seemed  to  benumb  all  his  faculties. 

When  the  baggageman  had  asked  him  if  he 

wanted  a  sleeper,  he  had  smiled  bitterly  as  he 

said   briefly,    "  No,   I    don't."      Nothing   had 

seemed  more  improbable  than  that  he  should 

I  10 


ness. 

;nd  to 
ot  had 
hicac;o 
travel- 
pay  as 
i  soon 
get  oft 

friend, 

r  about 

Then 

rv.     A 
hrough 
i    who 
pt    one 
ill  that 
led  his 
lis  hat 
to  go 
then, 
)ne  of 
in  his 
le  day 
rt   and 
which 

if  he 

as  he 

g   had 

ihould 


The   ''  Upper  Deestricty 

do  any  sleeping  that  night.  Vet  when  the 
conductor  shook  his  arm,  and  shouted  in  his 
ear,  he  opened  his  eyes  to  discover  that  it  was 
broad  daylight. 

"  Here  you  are,  sir,  at  the  Junction;  if  you 
want  the  Chicago  train,  you  will  have  to  step 
lively.     That's  it  on  the  south  track." 

The  young  man  managed  to  get  himself  ofi^ 
the  car,  and  to  bring  with  him  his  grip  and 
overcoat;  but  he  stood  quite  still  and  let  the 
Chicago  train  pull  out  of  the  station.  AA  hy 
should  he  go  to  Chicago  ?  Still,  he  must  go 
somevv'here.  He  felt  almost  more  bewildered 
than  he  had  the  night  before,  and  he  also  felt 
humiliated  to  think  that  he  had  been  sleeping ; 
although,  if  he  could  have  realized  it,  that  was 
perhaps  the  most  sensible  thing  he  had  done 
during  the  twenty-four  hours  just  past. 

Across  the  road  from  him  was  a  hotel,  and 
people  from  various  trains  were  crowding  in 
for  breakfast.  Something  reminded  Wayne 
that  he  had  had  no  dinner  the  night  before, 
and  he  followed  the  crowd.  A  chance  to  wash 
and  brush,  followed  by  a  good  breakfast,  re- 
stored his  wits  somewhat;  and  when  he  saw 
by  the  schedule  that  the  next  train  via  the 
"Great  Northwestern  road"  left  in  fifteen 
minutes,  he  resolved  to  take  it.  He  had 
always  intended  to  see  the  great  West  some- 
time, why  not  now  ? 

II I 


1 11  ; 


By    U^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

All  day  he  rode,  going  out  with  the  crowd 
for  dinner  and  for  supper,  and  accepting  the 
kindly  offer  of  a  vacant  berth  in  the  over- 
crowded sleepers. 

"  Lucky  my  friend  didn't  show  up,"  said  the 
friendly  stranger  who  had  offered  it;  "  if  he  had, 
you'd  have  had  to  sit  up  all  night;  there's  an 
awful  crowd  on  board." 

Wayne,  although  he  had  such  important 
matters  of  his  own  to  think  about,  nevertheless 
took  time  to  wonder  who  the  friend  was,  and 
why  he  had  not  "  shown  up."  Had  he,  pos- 
sibly, been  going  away  from  home  for  good, 
and  had  something  happened  to  make  it  all 
unnecessary  ?  He  had  arranged  a  probable 
chain  of  circumstances  for  him,  and  was  be- 
coming deeply  interested  in  the  plot,  when 
he  pulled  himself  up  sharply  and  mentally 
called  himself  a  fool  for  allowing  his  mind 
to  interest  itself  with  childish  imaginings  in- 
stead of  giving  himself  to  the  serious  business 
of  life. 

He  did  not  sleep  so  well  that  night  as  he 
had  the  night  before,  despite  the  berth  that 
dozens  of  weary,  less  fortunate  travellers  envied 
him.  His  benefactor  just  below  him  snored 
distressfully,  and  the  air  of  the  car,  or  rather 
the  lack  of  air,  was  torture  to  Wayne's  sensitive 
nerves.  So  it  was  a  very  much  jaded  traveller 
who  looked  gloomily  at  life,  upon  the  second 
I  12 


#  -■ 


ess. 


id  the 
s  had, 
s's  an 


ortant 
heless 
s,  and 
:,  pos- 
good, 
it  all 
obable 
IS  be- 
when 

n  tally 
mind 

|rs  in- 
siness 

as  he 
that 
nvied 
nored 
-ather 
isitive 
Iveller 
jcond 


The   ''  Upper  Dee  strict. '^'^ 

morning  of  his  journey,  and  tried  to  determine 
what  should  be  done  next. 

It  was  folly  for  him  to  go  on  in  this  way; 
besides  being  monotonous  in  the  extreme,  the 
process  was  making  great  strides  through  his 
pocket-book.  A  young  man  who  was  hence- 
forth to  support  himself  must  think  of  such 
things.  Years  ago,  —  a  hundred  years  ago  it 
seemed  to  him,  —  when  he  was  a  small  boy,  he 
had  imagined  a  state  of  things  that  pleased  him. 
"  When  1  am  a  man,"  he  had  said,  "  some  day, 
I  mean  to  take  fifty  dollars  and  go  to  the 
station  and  get  on  the  first  train  that  comes, 
and  ride,  and  ride,  until  it  is  all  gone,  and  then 
see  where  I  will  be  and  how  I  shall  feel." 

He  had  laughed  much  over  this  conceit  and 
argued  with  his  mother  as  to  his  probable  feel- 
ings. Behold,  here  he  was  almost  realizing 
that  childish  plan  !  What  with  meals,  and 
sleeper,  and  tickets,  he  had  spent  not  so  very 
much  less  than  the  fifty  dollars  already  ;  and 
if  he  did  not  feel  "  of  all  men  most  miserable," 
it  was  difficult  for  him  to  imagine  greater 
trouble  than  his  own. 

Still  it  was  time  to  think  connectedly,  and  he 
set  himself  about  it.  There  was  no  use  in 
trying  to  go  over  the  weary  story  again,  he 
had  been  at  that  all  night.  His  enemy  had 
conquered  him  somehow  ;  he  could  not  under- 
stand it,  there  was  a  mystery  about  it,    and 


tl  i 


I, 

'.  1 


,  f 


By    ff^^{y  of  the    IVilchrness, 

probiil>ly  there  iiKvavs  would  be;  but  the  tact 
was  plain  enough  that  his  father  had  been 
entirely  alienated  from  him.  That  woman  and 
her  son  had  accomj^lished  what  they  had  been 
trvimr,  from  the  first.  Mis  father  had  told 
him,  practically,  that  he  was  a  villain,  and  that 
he  had  been  plotting  all  the  while  to  cover  his 
own  guilt  at  the  expense  of  his  stepbrother  ■ 
And  then,  finally,  when  out  of  the  fulness  of 
his  heart,  lie  had  made  that  last  cry  for  confi- 
dence, his  father  had  ordered  him  out  of  his 
sight!  What  could  have  been  meant,  in  view 
of  all  that  had  passed  before  this,  but  that  he 
was  to  go  permanently?  !t  was  not  the  if c' /;/([, 
the  poor  fellow  told  himself  as  he  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  forehead ;  life  at  home 
had  become  anything  but  pleasant  to  him  ;  he 
had  meant,  very  soon,  to  relieve  his  flither  of 
his  presence;  but  the  manner  of  the  going,  like 
a  disowned  reprobate,  was  terrible. 

The  day  was  heavy  with  clouds,  and  the  air  was 
chill  with  tlie  sense  of  a  coming  storm  ;  other 
men  were  buttoning  their  coats  closer  about  them 
and  examining  the  heating  apparatus  at  their 
feet;  but  Wayne  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  forehead,  and  his  sensitive  blood  seemed 
at  fever  heat.  No,  he  would  not  go  all  over 
it  again.  He  would  never,  if  possible,  never^ 
so  long  as  he  lived,  think  of  that  prince  of 
villains  again.  If  he  could  kill  him  and  thus 
114 


LI  r  was 

other 

them 

their 

from 

pemed 

over 
wveKy 
:e  of 

thus 


7'/)c   ''  Upper  Dec  strict r 

rid  the  earth  of  a  wretch  who  ought  not  to 
hve,  there  might  l)e  some  excuse  for  thinking 
of  him;  but  since  he  was  powerless,  let  him  not 
poUute  his  mind  with  such  a  memory.  It  was 
in  that  way  that  he  tried  to  dismiss  his  step- 
brother from  his  life. 

Now  what  was  he  to  do  ?  He  wished  to 
have  himself  distinctly  understand  that  he  had 
bv  no  means  run  away  from  home,  like  the 
bad  boy  in  the  story  l)()ok  ;  his  lip  curled  in 
sarcasm  over  the  thought,  and  he  drew  him- 
self up  with  sad  dignity.  It  was  not  that,  hy 
any  means:  he  had  been  ordered  away!  As 
soon  as  he  was  definitely  settled  and  at  work, 
he  should  of  course  write  to  his  father  and 
explain  the  step  he  had  felt  himself  compelled 
to  take,  —  thus  much  was  due  his  position  as 
a  gentleman,  —  but  he  would  distinctly  decline 
any  further  assistance  from  his  father  and 
make  what  wav  he  could  by  himself  His 
broken  college  course,  so  near  the  end,  and 
with  the  end  in  view  so  full  of  expected 
honors,  was  a  very  bitter  portion  of  his  cup. 
He  had  meant  to  endure  until  he  should 
g'-aduate ;  but  his  father  had  himself  made 
this  impossible,  so  he  tried  to  put  that  part 
of  his  life  away  as  something  that  was  beyond 
his  control.  Only,  he  told  himself  proudly, 
that  he  should  graduate.  It  would  not  be 
with  his  class ;  and  the  class   honors,  that  he 


J 


l\  II  :.:s:sff" 


m 

•»  il 

|i 

VI 

'■1 

1    t  1    1 

Hil 


N  .^i' 


i'"'' 

■I 


|i^ 


t  . 


:f  [1, 


By    Ji^ay  of  the    Wilderness, 

knew  they  had  been  preparing  to  lavish  upon 
him,  would  be  given  to  another;  there  would 
be  delay,  but  some  day  he  should  graduate, 
and  from  that  very  college.  His  lather  should 
see,  if  he  cared  to  see,  what  the  world  thought 
of  the  son  whom  he  had  cast  off  so  easily. 

The  fands  with  which  to  do  all  these  great 
things,  the  young  man  meant  to  earn.*  For 
several  years  he  had  been  telling  himself  that 
he  believed  he  was  intended  for  a  teacher,  and 
down  deep  in  his  heart  had  been  an  ambition  to 
sometime  become  a  college  President.  Assur- 
edly he  had  not  meant  to  begin  his  work  by 
teaching  a  district  school,  but  he  had  the  sense 
to  see  that  for  an  undergraduate,  friendless  and 
alone,  even  a  district  school  might  be  hard  to 
secure.  Meantime,  he  must  live.  He  took 
out  his  pocket-book  and  carefully  estimated  his 
resources. 

When  he  left  home  he  had  a  hundred  dol- 
lars in  his  pocket,  and  he  knew  that  there  was 
something  over  fifty  placed  to  his  credit  at  the 
bank ;  his  father  had  been  very  liberal  with 
his  allowance,  and  he  was  simple  in  his  tastes 
and  so  studious  in  his  habits  that  the  surplus 
had  accumulated.  But  the  long  reckless  jour- 
ney had  already  lessened  the  sum  alarmingly 
to  one  who  had  never  before  been  compelled 
to  count  costs.  He  took  out  his  watch  and 
examined  it  carefully  with  a  new  interest.     He 

ii6 


ness. 


\  upon 
\  would 
aduate, 
should 
:hought 

;e  great 

1/    For 

elf  that 

ler,  and 

ition  to 

Assur- 

/ork  by 

le  sense 

less  and 

hard  to 

e  took 

ted  his 

led  dol- 
ire  was 

at  the 
.1  with 

tastes 
lurplus 
Is  jour- 
Iningly 

pelled 

h  and 
He 


The   "  Upper  Dee  strict?'' 

knew  that  it  was  very  valuable,  "  too  valuable 
for  a  boy  to  carry,"  his  ikther  had  said  with  an 
indulgent  smile  when  he  handed  it  to  him. 
"  It  cost  two  hundred  dollars,  my  boy  ;  but 
your  grandfather  decreed  that  you  were  to  have 
it  on  your  sixteenth  birthday,  so  here  it  is." 

The  grandfather  was  gone  now,  his  mother's 
father,  and  Wayne  had  meant  to  keep  the  watch 
forever.  He  meant  to  still,  but  he  told  him- 
self, his  eyes  suddenly  dimming  while  he  gazed 
at  it,  that  if  real  necessity  should  arise,  he 
could  sell  it  for  awhile,  at  least,  until  he  was 
able  to  buy  it  back.  Meantime,  of  course,  he 
could  get  something  to  do  to  earn  his  living ; 
if  not  teaching,  why  then — shovelling  snow,  or 
whatever  was  to  be  had ;  and  he  set  his  lips 
firmly,  making  lines  in  his  face  that  his  step- 
mother would  have  said  "  indicated  the  Pierson 
obstinacy,"  and  resolved  that  he  would  succeed. 

He  got  off,  toward  the  close  of  the  day,  at  a 
little  station  where  the  train  seemod  to  be  unac- 
countably delayed,  and  for  very  weariness  walked 
about  in  front  of  the  little  hotel,  and  wondered 
if  it  would  be  wise  to  pass  another  night  on  the 
train,  or  whether  he  ought  to  stop  at  once  and 
go  to  work  at  something.  His  fifty  dollars 
would  soon  be  gone,  and  he  knew  now,  without 
further  experiment,  just  how  he  should  feel. 

Two  men  held  up  the  decaying  pillars  of  the 
hotel  porch  and  chatted  together. 

117 


.f 


'<       I 


■^n. 


^t 

¥.r  ■ 

p!" 

t  i       i 

•  h  '■' 

By    TVay  of  the    JVilderne:s. 

"  What  they  going  to  do  for  a  teacher  up 
there  at  the  upper  deestrict  ?  " 

"  I  d'no;  find  another,  I  s'pose.  That  fellow 
gave  them  the  slip  nice,  didn't  he?  Bad  time, 
too ;  school  ought  to  have  took  up  three  weeks 
ago  or  more.  H'^re  it  is  the  first  of  November  ! 
But  you  see  they  couldn't  do  nothing  till 
Squire  Willard  got  home,  and  he  didn't  come 
till  last  night.  Now  they'll  look  around  lively 
for  another,  I  s'pose." 

"  What  school  is  that  ?  "  It  was  Wayne's 
voice  that  asked  the  question.  The  man  lean- 
ing against  the  nearest  post  turned  and  sur- 
veyed him  carefully  from  head  to  foot,  before 
he  made  answer. 

"It's  the  upper  deestrict,  stranger ;  the  big 
red  schoolhouse  about  a  mile  from  here,  along 
the  north  pike.  1  hey  had  a  man  teacher  all 
hired,  and  he  give  *em  the  slip  at  the  last  min- 
ute ;  after  the  last  minute,  you  may  say.  They 
waited  for  him  and  didn't  hear  nothing  from 
him  for  most  a  week  after  school  had  ought  to 
commenced ;  waited  for  him  every  day,  you 
know  ;  and  all  the  time  he  didn't  mean  to  come 
at  all.     So  now  they're  out." 

Wayne  turned  suddenly  and  sprang  back 
into  the  train,  just  in  time  to  secure  overcoat 
and  hand  bag.  He  had  resolved  to  look  into 
matters  at  the  "  upper  deestrict." 


ii8 


'Hj 


'4   ('■ 


rnejs. 

1 

cher  up 

1 

It  fellow 
ad  time, 
ee  weeks 
veniber ! 
ling    till 

1 

I't  come 
id  lively 

Wayne's 
lan  lean- 
and  sur- 
>t,  before 

V 

;  the  big 

re,  along 

icher  all 

ast  min- 

They 

ng  from 

Dught  to 

ay,  you 

to  come 

back 
(vercoat 
)ok  into 


IX. 


<'  /  might  be  a  FooW 


H 


M,"  said  Squire  Willard,  with  the 
doubtful,  somewhat  perplexed  ac- 
cent, "  I  dunno,  I  declare ;  it  is  a 
kind  of  a  risk,  especially  as  you  are 
so  young  and  haven't  had  experience,  and  come 
without  references,  as  one  may  say.  Still,  your 
references  are  extra  good.  I  believe  in  a  col- 
lege education  myself,  and  I  mean  my  boy 
shall  have  one.  1  am  a  self-made  man,  but 
every  one  cannot  succeed  in  that  way.  Well, 
I  don't  deny  that  we  are  in  a  kind  of  a  fix. 
School  ought  to  have  taken  up  more  than  a 
month  ago,  and  the  assistant  teacher — have 
you  seen  the  assistant  teacher?  Well,  she's  as 
smart  as  a  new  whip  ;  but  then  she's  young, 
too,  and  being  well  known  here  it  comes  hard 
for  her  in  some  ways;  your  being  a  perfect 
stranger  will  help;  but  we've  got  a  tough  lot 
of  boys.  Do  you  think  you  could  manage 
them  ?  " 

"  I  should  certainly  make  an  effort  to  do  so," 
Wayne  said,  trying  to  speak  with  the  dignity 

119 


'i! 


;■.■(■■ 


i  ;■ 


By    Pl^ay  of  the    IJ^ilderness. 

befitting  at  least  thirty  years.  "  I  may  not  be 
so  young  as  you  fancy  ;  some  people  retain 
their  youthful  appearance  longer  than  others." 

"  That's  so ;  you  don't  look  a  day  older 
than  seventeen  or  eighteen,  now  that's  a  fact; 
but  I  presume  you  are  older,  being  you  were 
on  your  last  year  in  college.  Pity  you  had  to 
3top.  Funds  give  out?  I  thought  likely; 
well,  it  isn't  every  young  man  who  has  a  father 
to  push  him  through." 

"  No,"  said  Wayne,  "  it  isn't.  I  should  like 
to  undertake  the  work  here  if  you  care  to  have 
me.  If  I  don't  succeed,  it  will  be  easy  to  dis- 
miss me ;  and  I  think  you  will  find  that  my 
professors  in  college  will  vouch  for  my  charac- 
ter and  scholarship." 

"  Vt'ell,  the  fact  is  there  isn't  time  to  wail 
and  see  what  they  would  say ;  but  I've  no 
doubt  it  Vv'ould  be  all  right ;  you  don't  look 
like  a  deceiving  young  man.  Well,  Mr. — 
what  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?  Oh,  yes, 
Pierson.  I've  a  great  mind  to  give  you  a 
trial.  Our  young  folks  are  getting  very  res- 
tive. Sarah  Jane  —  that's  the  assistant  — 
threatened  to  open  school  herself  if  I  didn't 
stir  about  and  get  some  one.  Fact  is,  they  all 
depend  on  me,  and  when  I'm  away  things 
don't  go.  I've  been  away  for  nearly  a  month. 
I  believe  I'll  risk  it  and  give  you  a  t-t-ial ;  here 
it  is  Friday  again !  School  ought  to  begin 
120 


I'  \ 


'mess. 

y  not  be 
le  retain 
others." 
ay  older 
s  a  fact; 
^ou  were 
u  had  to 
:  likely  ; 
;  a  father 

Duld  like 
;  to  have 
y  to  dis- 
that  my 
J  charac- 

to  wail 
I've  no 
In't  look 
Mr.— 

h,  yes, 
you   a 
|ery  res- 
istant — 
didn't 
they  all 
things 
month. 
I  ;   here 
begin 


^t, 


n 


1 


"t 

M 


^^  I  mhht  he  a   FoolT 

Monday,  without  fail.  Well,  go  in,  young 
man,  and  see  what  you  can  make  of  it." 

Squire  Willard  was  certainly  fond  of  that 
word  "well";  Wayne  could  scarcely  repress  a 
smile  over  its  constant  and  meaningless  repe- 
tition. He  was  astonished,  however,  at  the 
celerity  with  which  the  business  was  despatched, 
once  the  great  man's  mind  was  made  up. 
Within  the  next  hour  he  found  himself  the 
duly  appointed  head  of  the  school,  which  even 
the  Squire  spoke  of  as  the  "  upper  deestrict." 
Not  only  that,  but  he  was  directed  where  to 
find  a  boarding-house,  and  given  the  key  to 
the  school  building  that  he  might  explore  it  at 
his  leisure.  When  he  ventured  to  express  a 
doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  moving  so  rapidly, 
tlie  Squire  interrupted  him  with  :  — 

"  Oh,  there'll  be  no  trouble  about  that.  I'll 
call  the  committee  together  to-night  and  go 
through  the  form  ;  but  you  needn't  wait  for 
that.  Just  go  ahead  and  make  all  your  ar- 
rangements and  consider  yourself  hired.  Fact 
is,  they  all  do  as  I  say  ;  no  need  for  more  than 
me  on  the  committee,  for  none  of  the  others 
are  willing  to  stir  unless  I  tell  'em  to.  You 
just  go  down  to  Isaiah  Thompson's  and  tell 
'em  you  want  the  teacher's  room,  and  you  will 
be  all  right.  Oh,  they'll  take  you  fast  enough  ; 
teacher  always  boards  there ;  Isaiah  is  Sarah 
Jane's  father,  you  see,  so  it  will  be  handy  for 

121 


■■^•I^  -—-*—'.—,— 


°         i' 


i 
1  f 


n   '!' 


m^ 


wi 


I 

! 

i 


!  ' 


By    ff^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

you  and  her  to  fix  things  up.  Isaiah  Thomp- 
son is  a  blacksmith  ;  he  isn't  an  educated  man, 
but  he's  a  good,  honest  blacksmith,  and  there 
ain't  a  better  girl  in  town  than  Sarah  Jane. 
She's  made  good  use  of  what  chances  she's 
had,  and  although  she  has  only  the  little  ones 
to  teach,  the/  do  say  that  there  ain't  a  boy  in 
the  school  who  can  puzzle  her  in  arithmetic. 
You  may  want  her  to  take  hold  with  some  of 
the  big  scholars  if  you  get  in  a  tight  place. 
She's  great  on  grammar,  too,  Sarah  Jane  is. 
Well,  Mr.  Pierson,  or  Professor  Pierson,  I 
s'pose  I  must  call  you  now ;  sounds  queer, 
don't  it  ?  Still,  I  believe  in  it.  They  do  it 
altogether  at  Westover.  That's  our  nearest 
city,  and  a  smart,  thriving  one  it  is  ;  only  fif- 
teen miles  away  from  us.  We  want  our  young- 
sters trained  in  all  the  city  ways ;  give  'em  the 
best  is  my  motto.  Well,  Mr.  —  Professor 
Pierson,  Pm  in  something  of  a  hurry  this 
morning,  and  I  presume  you  are,  since  you 
have  to  set  up  housekeeping  to-day,  as  it  were. 
Pve  got  a  pile  of  letters  and  accounts  to  go 
over.  Drop  in  and  see  me  whenever  you  feel 
like  it,  and  when  you  want  advice  about  the 
school  or  anything,  don't  hesitate  to  let  me 
know." 

Whereupon,  Wayne  asked  for  and  received 
minute  directions  how  to  find  the  blacksmith's 
house  and  walked  away,  his   mind   a  curious 
122 


MM' 


'mess. 

lliomp- 
ted  man, 
nd  there 
ih  Jane. 
ces  she's 
ttle  ones 
a  boy  in 
ithmetic. 
some  of 
It  place. 
Jane  is. 
erson,  I 
s  queer, 
ey  do  it 

nearest 
only  fif- 
•  young- 
'em  the 
*rofessor 
rry  this 
ice  you 

it  were, 
to  go 
you  feel 
out  the 

let  me 

eceived 
smith's 
curious 


'M 


^ 


# 
-f?' 


"■■'St 


I 


''  /  m/g/)t  he  a   Fool!''' 

mixture  of  amusement  and  indignatiori.  Life 
was  certainly  pushing  him  this  morning!  An 
hour  ago  a  houseless  stranger,  now  the  duly 
appointed  head  of  a  public  school  with  a  board- 
ing place  and  an  assistant  ready  to  receive  him ! 
The  indignation  was  because  of  the  utter  reck- 
lessness of  this  great  man.  Squire  Willard,  in 
thus  trusting  the  interests  of  the  boys  and  girls 
of  his  town  to  an  utter  stranger,  without  wait- 
ing even  to  learn  whether  any  of  the  statements 
he  had  made  concerning  himself  were  true. 

"  I  might  be  a  fool,"  he  told  himself  indig- 
nantly, "  or  worse ;  I  might  be  a  villain  for  all 
he  knows,  and  he  is  willing  to  let  his  own 
children  come  immediately  under  my  influence, 
and  to  place  that  immaculate  *  Sarah  Jane  '  in 
my  immediate  care!  Or  am  I  in  hers,  I  won- 
der ?  "  Then  amusement  got  the  uppermost, 
and  he  laughed  outright. 

It  proved  to  be  a  busy  morning.  The  Irre- 
sponsible young  traveller  had  secured  his  over- 
coat and  bag,  but  had  allowed  his  trunk  to  go 
to  the  point  for  which  it  was  checked,  fifty 
miles  or  so  away.  He  must  go  to  the  station 
and  make  arrangements  to  have  it  returned  to 
him.  Since  this  remarkable  village  was  willing 
to  adopt  a  stranger,  and  in  five  minutes  make 
a  "professor"  of  him,  there  seemed  to  be  noth- 
ing to  do  but  accept  the  situation.  The  trunk 
planned    for,    he    sought    Isaiah    Thompson's 

123 


l\ri 


,f' 


I  i. 
>  ; 


I  ii!i 


By    IVay  of  the    Wilderness. 

small  plain  red  house,  and  was  received  by  a 
fat  motherly  looking  woman  who  waddled  about 
with  pleased  alacrity  to  show  him  the  room, 
saying,  "I  want  to  know!"  to  his  brief  ex- 
planation that  he  was  the  new  teacher.  By 
this  time  he  felt  that  he  must  find  a  spot  where 
he  could  be,  not  only  quite  out  of  sight,  but 
out  of  the  hearing  of  curious  ears  ;  so  deposit- 
ing his  bag,  and  learning  the  hour  for  supper, 
he  explained  that  he  had  taken  a  late  breakfast 
and  should  want  no  dinner ;  then  he  made  a 
dash  for  the  nearest  woods  and  tramped  about 
until  he  was  physically  exhausted;  then  he  sat 
down  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree  and  buried 
his  face  in  both  hands. 

What  had  he  done,  this  creature  of  impulse  ? 
Placed  a  thousand  miles  between  himself  and 
his  home,  his  college,  all  his  old  life !  Practi- 
cally run  away,  however  much  he  might  sneer 
at  the  idea  and  curl  his  lip  over  the  story 
books.  In  what  respect  was  his  action  better 
than  those  of  the  young  fools  about  whom  he 
had  read  in  his  very  early  boyhood,  and  for 
whom  he  had  felt  always  a  wholesome  con- 
tempt  ?  It  is  true  he  would  soon  be  twenty-one 
and  his  own  master ;  but  did  a  self-respecting 
young  man  of  twenty-one  care  particularly 
about  being  his  own  master }  Given  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  decent  fellow  with  a  decent  home, 
and  a  reasonably  good  father,  had  he  not  as  a 
124 


rness. 

ed  by  a 
:d  about 
;  room, 
irief  ex- 
er.  By 
)t  where 
^ht,  but 
deposit- 
supper, 
reakfast 
made  a 
d  about 
I  he  sat 
buried 

ipulse  ? 

elf  and 

Practi- 

t  sneer 

;   story 

better 

om  he 

nd  for 

le  con- 

ty-one 

ecting 

ularly 

e  fact 

|home, 

t  as  a 


'■4 


''  /  /J7/g6t  be  (1    Foo/y 

rule  learned  by  that  time  to  appreciate  both  ? 
It  is  true  that  his  father  had  spoken  bitter 
words  to  him,  had,  in  fact,  ordered  him  from 
his  sight.  But  was  it  presumable  that  he 
meant  him  to  go  away  from  home  ?  On  the 
contrary,  was  he  not,  probably  at  that  very 
hour,  worried  and  distressed  because  of  his 
absence  ?  There  had  been  some  misunder- 
standing; that  contemptible  wretch,  who  had 
been  his  hidden  enemy  since  the  first  day  they 
had  met,  had  succeeded  in  concocting  some 
scheme  that  he  did  not  understand,  and  that 
had  for  the  time  deceived  his  father;  but  of 
course  the  truth  would  come  out,  sooner  or 
later;  and  if  he  had  been  a  man,  instead  of  a 
silly,  impatient,  reckless  boy,  he  would  have 
stayed  patiently  and  studied  out  the  trouble, 
and  borne  the  thousand  petty  trials  of  his 
everyday  life,  and  compelled  his  father  to  un- 
derstand the  mistake  he  was  making. 

There  was  no  getting  away  from  the  conclu- 
sion that  he  had  been  a  fool.  Pie  had  given 
his  stepmother  a  chance  to  tell  all  her  friends, 
with  the  air  of  meek  regret  which  she  knew  so 
well  how  to  assume,  that  "  that  passionate  boy's 
ungovernable  temper  had  gotten  the  better  of 
him  once  more,  and  he  had  actually  run  away 
from  college  !  his  poor  father  was  nearly  dis- 
tracted. Oh,  she  did  not  pretend  to  know  the 
details,  some  college  troubles,  such  as  young 

125 


ill 


I  V 


By    JVay  of  the    Jl'^ildcrncss. 


fell( 
th 


ows  of  his  stamp   were  always  getting  into 


IS  was  evR 


leiitb 


th 


V  worse  than   usual,  nowevei 


1,  h( 


for  Wayne  had  been   unable  to  stay  and  face 
it,  and  they  really  did   not  know  where  he  was 


rone 


I 


The  young  "professor"  on  the  fallen  tree 
ground  his  teeth  and  stamped  his  foot  in  im- 
potent rage  as  he  thought  of  all  these  things, 
and  realized  what  opportunities  he  had  given 
his  enemies.  If  he  had  only  waited,  and  gone 
quietly,  openly  ;  if  it  had  finally  seemed  best 
for  him  to  go  away  ;  but  to  rush  away  in  the 
midnight  and  leave  no  word  with  anybody  ! 
What  were  even  his  friends  to  think  of  such 
conduct  ? 

It  was  a  pale,  worn,  miserably  depressed 
youth  who  emerged  at  last,  toward  the  close 
of  that  eventful  Friday,  and  made  his  way  to 
his  stuffy  little  room. 

Mrs.  Thompson  would  have  been  aggrieved 
could  she  have  known  that  the  word  "  stuffy  " 
was  applied  to  her  spare  chamber.  She  had 
done  her  I  est  to  make  it  inviting.  Her  blue 
and  white  "  counterpane  "  was  on  the  bed,  her 
brightest  piece  of  rag  carpeting  was  on  the 
floor,  and  the  white  muslin  curtains  at  the 
windows  had  been  washed  and  ironed  and 
darned  by  Sarah  Jane's  own  thrifty  hands. 

Mother  Thompson  could  not  know  that  the 
room  looked  to  its  occupant  about  the  size 
126 


iHf 


'mess. 

ng  into ; 
however, 
and  face 
e  lie  was 

Hen  tree 
t  in  im- 
t  things, 
id  given 
md  gone 
ned  best 
ly  in  the 
nybody  ! 
of  such 

epressed 
he  close 
way  to 

rgrieved 
stufTy  " 
>he  had 
er  blue 
)ed,  her 
on  the 
at  the 
led  and 
Ids. 

:hat  the 
[he  size 


'^  /  mhht  he 


a   Fooir 


I 


of  the  storeroom  at  home,  and  that  he  had 
never  before  seen  a  counterpane  and  did  not 
admire  this  one.  He  noticed  the  muslin  cur- 
tains only  to  push  them  wrathfuHy  out  of  his 
way  as  he  jerked  up  both  small  paned  windows 
and  muttered  that  they  were  the  size  of  the 
hen-coop  windows  at  home.  Then  he  felt  of 
the  puffy  bed  and  uttered  a  single  dismayed 
word,  "Feathers!"  His  tone  and  manner 
Mrs.  Thompson  would  not  in  the  least  have 
understood. 

There  was  time  for  no  more  discoveries,  for  he 
was  summoned  to  the  tea  table.  Being  hungry, 
at  last,  he  thought  he  had  responded  with 
promptness,  but  the  business  of  eating  had 
already  commenced  when  he  reached  the  dining 
room.  Two  men,  both  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
were  engaged  in  shovelling  down  —  in  Wayne's 
estimation  no  other  term  would  have  fitted  the 
act  —  great  mouthfuls  of  potato  and  turnip 
warmed  up  together. 

"How  d'  do?"  said  Isaiah,  nodding  his 
great  black  head  as  Wayne  entered.  "  You're 
the  new  teacher,  I  reckon.  Excuse  us,  we  was 
in  an  uncommon  hurry  to-night,  Jim  and  me 
was.  rhis  is  Jim  Hotchkiss,  and  your  name 
is  —  what,  now?  I've  got  a  mighty  poor 
memory  for  names.  Oh,  yes,  Pierson.  Mis' 
Thompson  I  reckon  you  have  seen  before.  Set 
right  down  and  make  yourself  at  home  ;  we  all 

127 


i 


,111 


^*  1 


l:<  ".i 


1^ 


i      !    ' 


^    /^y/  <9/^   t6e    U^ilderness. 

feel  uncommonly  at  home  at  this  table,  don't 
we,  Jim  ? 

"  You  must  be  pretty  hungry  by  this  time," 
continued  the  genial  host,  heaping  poor  Wayne's 
plate  high  with  the  obnoxious  potato  and  turnip. 
"  Didn't  want  no  dinner,  mother  said.  Home- 
sick a  little,  I  reckon.  That  ain't  no  discredit 
to  a  boy  who's  gone  away  from  a  good  home. 
Come  fur  ?  Good  land  !  A  thousand  miles  ! 
What  ever  possessed  you  }  " 

What,  indeed  !  Wayne  could  only  be  thank- 
ful that  the  blacksmith  gave  him  no  time  to 
reply. 

"  Well,  you've  come  to  a  country  where 
there's  pie  ity  to  eat  an'  plenty  to  do.  Seen 
Sarah  Jane?  Haven't!  eh?  Well,  now,  I 
reckoned  that  you  and  Sarah  Jane  was  pretty 
good  friends  by  this  time.  Where  is  she, 
mother?  " 

"Why,  he  jest  come  in  a  little  bit  ago;  and 
Sarah  Jane's  in  the  back  kitchen  fussing ;  she's 
been  fussing  the  livelong  afternoon  over  his 
room,  gettin'  it  to  her  mind.  Young  folks  is 
full  of  notions  nowdays." 

This  was  not  said  in  irritation,  but  with  a 
sort  of  motherly  pride,  as  though  a  woman  who 
had  a  daughter  like  Sarah  Jane  could  afford  to 
indulge  her  in  all  manner  of  "  notions."  A 
door  in  the  near  distance  opened  and  the  sub- 
ject of  this  explanation  entered.  A  wholesome- 
128 


'mess. 

le,  don't 

IS  time," 
Wayne's 
d  turnip. 
Home- 
discredit 
d  home, 
d  miles ! 

e  thank- 
time  to 

^  where 
).     Seen 

now,  I 
s  pretty 

is    she, 

fo ;  and 
;  she's 
iver  his 
Ifolks  is 

with  a 

Ian  who 

Ford  to 

'     A 

le  sub- 

jsome- 


■i 


''  /  might  be  a   Foo/^ 

looking  girl,  some  persons  would  have  called 
her,  with  clear,  honest  eyes  and  very  red  cheeks, 
the  color  being  heightened  in  effect  by  the  dress 
she  wore. 

"  Hallo  ! "  shouted  her  father,  "  you've 
come,  have  you  ?  I  didn't  know  but  you  was 
going  to  stay  in  the  back  kitchen  all  night. 
This  is  your  fellow-sufferer,  Mr.  —  oh,  yes," 
in  obedience  to  an  admonition  from  his  wife 
that  she  tried  to  make  undertone,  "  Professor 
Pierson,  I  forgot.  I  dunno  whether  Jim  and 
me  can  twist  our  tongues  to  that  many  times 
a  day,  eh,  Jim  ?  I'm  blessed  if  J  ain't  afraid 
I'll  forgit  sometimes  and  say  'sonny'  instead, 
you  look  so  uncommon  young.  Professor, 
this  is  my  girl,  my  Sarah  Jane  ;  and  she's  a 
spry  one,  I  can  tell  you  ;  you'll  have  to  get  up 
early  in  the  morning  to  get  ahead  of  her. 
Think  you  and  her  can  hit  it  off  together  ?  I'll 
tell  you  what,  I  guess  you'll  have  to  get  her 
to  do  most  of  the  wolloping.  She's  got  more 
strength  in  her  arms,  I'll  bet,  than  you  have." 

"  Now,  pa! "  came  in  protest  from  Sarah  Jane. 
But  her  voice  was  not  harsh,  and  was  brimful 
of  daughterly  affection  as  well  as  of  suppressed 
mirth. 

There  are  young  men  who  would  have  been 
able  to  have  met  the  jolly  blacksmith  halfway  ; 
to  have  discovered  at  once  that  he  meant  no 
offence,  and  was  simply  laboring  in  his   blunt, 

I  29 


I 


11:^1; 


ii>  1 1 


i     1 


,! 


si       ■'■■J        .14         '. 


£j    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

half-embarrassed  fashion  to  make  the  young 
stranger  feel  a;;  home.  Wayne  Pierson  was  not 
of  that  type  of  young  manhood  ;  or,  at  least,  he 
could  not  at  that  time  rise  to  the  situation. 
His  penetration  was  not  at  fault ;  he  recognized 
in  the  honest  blacksmith  a  mere  effort  to  be 
funny,  but  his  annoyance  and  disgust  at  fun  or 
friendliness  of  that  sort  were  unbounded.  He 
had  never  before  come  in  contact  with  such 
persons,  and  he  realized  that  he  did  not  in  the 
least  know  how  to  meet  them. 

Sarah  Jane  came  bravely  to  thr  .^scue.  Seat- 
ing herself  near  her  father,  she  began  and  kept  up 
throughout  the  meal  a  running  fire  of  repartee 
with  him,  parrying  his  thrusts  at  herself,  and 
turning  the  point  of  the  remark  back  upon  him, 
with  a  quickness  and  keenness  that  it  was  plain 
the  blacksmith  intensely  admired,  and  calling 
forth  huge  guffaws  of  laughter  from  the  insuf- 
ferable "Jim,"  whenever  his  mouth  was  suffi- 
ciently empty  to  admit  of  that  exercise.  Wayne, 
in  thinking  it  over  afterward,  was  comp-'lled  to 
own  to  himself  that  the  girl  was  bri^';.:  and 
quick-witted,  and  his  conscience  made  hini  •  ad 
that  neither  had  she  been  coarse.  But  he  re- 
venged himself  by  adding  sharply  that  he 
detested  her  and  the  entire  tribe  as  well,  and 
that  it  would  be  simply  impossible  for  him  to 
endure  life  in  the  same  house  with  such  people. 

The  meal,  however,  had  been  abundant,  and, 
130 


ilderness. 

s  the  young 
^ison  was  not 
>r,  at  least,  he 
he  situation, 
le  recognized 
effort  to  be 
ust  at  fun  or 
unded.  He 
:t  with  such 
id  not  in  the 

.scue.     Seat- 
and  kept  up 
?  of  repartee 
herself,  and 
<:  upon  him, 
it  was  plain 
and  calling 
1  the  insuf- 
\  was  suffi- 
e.    Wayne, 
mp'.'iled  to 
bri^l::  and 
e  hini  •  dd 
ut  he  re- 
that    he 
well,  and 
r  him  to 
h  people, 
dant,  and, 


(C 


/  might  be  a  Fool^'^ 


notwithstanding  the  turnip  in  the  potatoes,  re- 
markably good.  Despite  the  coarseness  of  the 
napery,  and  the  thickness  of  the  dishes,  even 
despite  the  three-tined  steel  forks,  and  the  fict 
that  both  the  blacksmith  and  *' Jim  "  disdained 
forks  altogether,  and  ate  with  their  knives, 
Wayne  found  himself  making  a  fairly  good 
meal.  Had  he  but  been  wise  enough  to  real- 
ize his  mercies,  the  bread  and  butter,  and  milk 
and  cream,  and  the  general  air  of  cleanliness  and 
neatness,  were  such  as  to  give  him  abundant 
reason  to  feel  that  the  "  lines  had  fallen  to  him 
in  fairly  comfortable  places."  He  felt  no  such 
thing;  he  was  dismayed,  even  terror-stricken, 
over  everything,  and  put  himself  into  the 
depths  of  that  terrible  feather  bed  with  a  groan 
very  like  despair. 


3' 


ic'r  i 


m 


h 


ji.  Ill 


r'  -u!j. 


If.,  I 


r  .  I 


I! 


X. 

'^  Wayne  Lorimer  Pierso7ir 

SATURDAY  morning  was  entirely  occu- 
pied in  writing  a  letter.  Wayne  Pier- 
son,  who  was  accustomed  to  expressing 
himself  on  paper,  and  who  had  a  repu- 
tation for  being  able  to  do  it  with  clearness  and 
elegance,  had  never  spent  so  much  time  nor 
wasted  so  much  paper  on  a  letter  in  his  life. 
His  little  room  was  all  but  carpeted  with  dis- 
carded sheets,  containing  the  words,  "  Dear 
father"  and  two  or  three,  or  sometimes  half 
a  dozen  lines  besides.  When  at  last  he  envel- 
oped and  sealed  his  effort,  assuring  himself 
that  it  was  the  best  he  could  do,  he  was  far 
from  satisfied. 

Reading  it  over  years  afterward,  one  cannot 
wonder  at  his  dissatisfaction.     It  read  thus  :  — 


Dear  Father:  I  hope  you  have  suffered 
no  anxiety  on  my  account;  I  should  have 
written  sooner,  but  circumstances  prevented. 
It  is  needless  to  tell  you  that  I  obeyed  to  the 
letter  your  last  directions  and  "  took  myself 
out  of  your  sight." 
132 


?> 


m. 

rely  occu- 
yne  Pier- 
ixpressing 
d  a  repu- 
irness  and 

time  nor 
1  his  life. 

with  dis- 
^  "  Dear 
mes  half 

he  envel- 
himself 
was  far 

|e  cannot 
thus : — 

suffered 
jld    have 
levented. 
to  the 
myself 


■  * 


'^  U^ayne  Lorimer  Pierson^ 

I  have  known  for  a  long  time  that,  for 
reasons  which  I  only  in  part  understand,  my 
presence  was  growing  daily  more  disagreeable 
to  you,  and  I  long  ago  planned  to  relieve  you 
permanently,  so  soon  as  I  should  graduate 
from  college.  I  regret  more  than  words  will 
express  that  I  was  not  able  to  complete  my 
college  course  before  starting  out  in  life  for 
myself  To  this  end  I  have  borne  in  silence 
all  sorts  of  misjudgings,  and  have  for  years 
endured  a  system  of  petty  tyranny  that  seemed 
to  me  at  times  beyond  endurance  ;  but  in  view 
of  our  last  interview,  I  have  no  doubt  you  will 
agree  with  me  that  the  time  arrived  when  I 
had  no  alternative  but  to  go. 

I  came  directly  to  the  town  and  state  from 
which  I  mail  this  letter,  and  have  been  fortu- 
nate enough  to  secure  work  at  once.  The 
school  of  which  I  have  been  made  the  head 
is  to  open  on  Monday  next.  A  misunder- 
standing on  the  part  of  the  teacher  who  was  to 
have  filled  the  place  created  an  unexpected 
vacancy  by  which  I  profited.  I  am,  therefore, 
pecuniarily  independent,  as  regards  the  future; 
and  can  only  regret  that  1  am  quite  unable  at 
present  to  repay  you  for  the  heavy  expense 
that  I  have  been  to  you  through  the  years. 
The  time  may  come  when  I  shall  be  able  to  do 
so.  I  think  I  need  not  assure  you  that  I  will 
keep  that  end  in  view. 

133 


w 


I'il'l 


N 


■a  ;?■ 


t: :  !• 


-p  ; ! 


!     ! 

I 


By    Jf^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

I  have  gone  over  in  careful  detail,  many 
times  indeed,  the  last  words  you  spoke  to  me 
during  our  interview  in  the  library,  and  am  at 
this  date  as  much  in  fog  as  to  your  possible 
meaning  as  I  was  at  that  time.  Why  I  should 
need  to  "plot"  to  "divert  suspicion"  from 
myself  is  a  mystery.  And  although  you 
informed  me  in  sufficiently  distinct  language 
that  I  was  "  the  guilty  one,"  you  failed  to 
reveal  to  me  my  guilt.  I  certainly  considered 
all  this  a  strange  reward  for  my  honest  though 
evidently  mistaken  effort  to  keep  a  semblance 
of  peace  in  our  ruined  family  life. 

It  is  not,  I  believe,  my  nature  to  boast  of 
mv  own  character  or  attainments,  but  the  cir- 
cumstances  are  peculiar,  and  you  will  therefore 
pardon  me  for  saying  that  I  find  it  hard  to 
understand  how  a  son  who  has  sustained  the 
reputation  for  character  and  scholarship  that 
I  certainly  have  during  my  entire  college 
course,  should  be  the  source  of  disappoint- 
ment and  grief  that  your  words  and  manner 
clearly  intimated.  However,  I  know,  and 
have  known  for  years,  that  I  have  a  bitter 
enemy  who  has  secured  your  private  ear  and 
managed  to  make  me  appear  to  you  what  I  am 
not.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  burden  you 
with  details.  I  have  tried  to  be  in  every 
respect  what  a  son  should  be,  and  in  your 
estimation   I   have  failed.      The  least   that  I 


'ness. 


,  many 
J  to  me 
i  am  at 
possible 

should 
from 
rh  you 
inguage 
ailed  to 
isidered 

though 
mblance 

)oast  of 
1  the  cir- 
lerefore 
hard  to 
led  the 
ip  that 
college 
point- 
anner 
,  and 
bitter 
ar  and 
t  I  am 
n  you 
every 
your 
that  I 


'■■  ■ 


i 
\ 


''  JP^ayne  Lorimcr  Pier  son. ^'^ 

could  do,  under  such  circumstance,  was  to  take 
myself  out  of  your  sight,  and  I  have  accord- 
ingly done  it.  If  you  care  to  hear  from  me, 
I  will  keep  you  posted  from  time  to  time  as  to 
my  success  or  failure  in  life,  and  I  shall  remain 
always  as  now, 

Your  sincere  and  well-meaning  son, 

Wayne   Lorimer   Pierson. 

There  shall  be  no  attempt  to  make  excuses 
for  this  letter  other  than  to  say,  what  seems 
unnecessary,  that  its  writer  was  still  fiercely 
angry.  Had  he  waited  a  week  longer,  it 
might,  undoubtedly  it  would,  have  been  a 
better  sounding  letter ;  but  a  curious  under- 
tone realization  of  his  father's  genuine  anxiety 
as  to  his  whereabouts  kept  him  from  waiting, 
although  it  did  not  keep  him  from  quoting 
and  requoting  the  words  that  had  stabbed 
him,  and  making  them  as  painful  to  his  father 
as  he  could.  The  letter  was  indeed  a  revela- 
tion of  the  power  that  anger  has  over  the 
judgment  as  well  as  over  the  affections,  if  one 
cares  to  study  it  in  that  light.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  during  his  prolonged  inter- 
view with  himself,  in  the  woods  the  day  before, 
Wayne  Pierson  had  frankly  owned  that  he  had 
been  a  fool ;  that  he  had  caught  up  his  father's 
hasty  words,  and  attached  an  importance  to 
them  that  they  did  not  possess,  and   had  al- 


L  I 


I!: 


!! 


i  I 

I    f 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

lowed  himself  to  run  away  from  home,  "  like 
any  story-book  idiot."  But  to  save  his  life  he 
could  not  have  expressed  any  thought  of  this 
kind  on  paper.  The  moment  he  wrote  those 
familiar  words,  "  Dear  father,"  the  demon  of 
passion  seemed  to  perch  at  his  elbow  and  move 
his  pen.  It  made  him  ignore  all  the  patience 
and  faithfulness  and  lavish  expenditure  of  the 
years,  and  ring  the  changes  only  on  that  last 
scene,  while  the  flither  was  evidently  smarting 
under  some  sting  that  made  him  for  the 
moment  beside  himself.  It  is  too  bad!  these 
reckless  boys,  how  carelessly  they  stab  !  The 
time  may  come  when  Wayne  Pierson,  as  a 
father,  will  learn  from  bitter  experience  some- 
thing of  his  father's  pain,  but  at  that  time  he 
could  think  only  of  his  own  pain. 

Still,  as  has  been  said,  he  was  dissatisfied 
with  the  letter.  After  it  was  gone,  there  were 
points  in  it  of  which  he  was  ashamed,  and 
which  he  would  have  recalled  if  he  could. 
Especially  did  he  realize  that  that  parade  of 
his  full  name,  "  Wayne  Lorimer  Pierson,"  was, 
to  say  the  least,  in  extremely  bad  taste.  Why 
need  he  have  reminded  his  father  just  then 
that  he  was  the  grandson  of  old  Judge  Lori- 
mer, a  name  still  spoken  throughout  the  coun- 
try neighborhood  of  which  he  had  been  the 
autocrat  almost  with  bated  breath  ?  His 
father  had  not  joined  in  the  general  admira- 
136 


w 


'ness. 

,  "  like 

life  he 
of  this 
e  those 
ion  of 
d  move 
)atience 

of  the 
bat  last 
narting 
for    the 

!  these 
!  The 
II,  as  a 
;  some- 

ime  he 

itisfied 
e  were 
a,  and 
could, 
ade  of 
'  was, 
Why 
then 
Lori- 
t  coun- 
en  the 
His 
dmira- 


'^  ll^ayne   Lorimcr   PicrsonT 

tion  of  Judge  Lorimer;  on  certain  legal  ques- 
tions thev  had  differed,  and  at  times  differed 
sharply,  and  Wayne  had  more  than  once  heard 
his  father  say,  when  reminded  that  his  son 
bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  old  Judge, 
that  he  hoped  he  would  not  be  like  his  grand- 
father in  every  respect.  Wayne  knew  that  he 
was  like  his  grandfather  in  character,  and  prided 
himself  on  it;  under  those  circumstances  it  was 
especially  silly  to  have  taken  up  nearly  a  line 
in  spreading  out  his  full  name  before  his 
i  1  ther. 

He  had  gone  down  to  the  kitchen  to  ask 
some  questions  about  the  mails,  with  the  letter 
in  his  hand,  anci  had  found  there  the  worthy 
blacksmith,  shaving  his  bristling  chin  bef  >re  the 
kitchen  glass. 

"  Been  writing  to  your  father  ? "  he  asked 
sociably,  as  his  keen  eye  took  in  at  a  glance  the 
name  on  the  envelope  written  in  Wayne's  bold- 
est hand.  "  I  always  had  a  notion  that  the 
young  fellows  wrote  first  to  their  mothers,  but 
I  must  say  I  like  to  see  them  think  of  their 
fathers,  too." 

"  My  mother  is  dead,"  said  Wayne,  briefly. 

"  Oh,  is  that  so  ?  Sho  !  I  oughtn't  to  have 
spoken  about  mothers;  I'm  always  putting  my 
foot  in  it."  There  was  such  genuine  sympathy 
in  Mr.  Thompson's  tone,  that  even  a  preoccu- 
pied young  man  like  Wayne  could  not  but  feel 


I'll 


h 


i  1 


'M' 


i[ 


By    M^ay  of  the    U'^ilderness. 

it,  and  he  forced  a  smile  as  he  said  that  no  harm 
had  been  done. 

"You've  got  a  good  father,  I'll  warrant,"  con- 
tinued the  blacksmith,  anxious  to  atone  for  a 
blunder.  "I  can  see  it  all  over  you  that  you've 
been  well  brought  up,  and  I  daresay  your 
father  is  that  proud  of  you  that  he  don't  know 
how  to  Stan'  it  sometimes.  I  would  be,  I 
know,  if  I  had  a  boy  like  you.  Daughters  are 
all  well  enough,"  here  he  gave  a  comical  wink 
of  one  eye  toward  Sarah  Jane,  who  was  skil- 
fully putting  together  materials  for  a  ginger- 
bread, "  but  I  tell  you  there's  nothing  like 
sons  CO  make  a  father  proud.  You  hold  on  to 
your  father,  young  man,  and  write  to  him  often, 
and  tell  him  every  little  thing  you  do,  or  don't 
do.  A  boy  don't  commonly  have  but  one 
good  father  in  a  lifetime,  and  they  are  worth 
taking  trouble  for.  You'll  excuse  my  calling 
you  a  boy;  you  look  so  turrible  young!  I'm 
blessed  if  I  ain't  afraid  that  the  youngsters  will 
forget  and  be  calling  you  one  of  the  boys. 
Sarah  Jane,  you'll  have  to  tend  up  to  'em  and 
make  'em  understand  what's  what." 

"  I  kind  of  suspicioned  that  he  hadn't  got 
any  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Thompson,  as  Wayne 
turned  abruptly  and  left  the  room,  "  he  looks 
so  kind  of  sad  all  the  time.  I  dunno  but  I 
might  call  it  gloomy.  I  wonder  if  he  lost  her 
only  a  spell  ago  ?     I  feel  dreadful  sorry  for  him 

•38 


,t  '1 


^<.,,,  w 


ness, 

0  harm 

;*  con- 
i  for  a 
you've 
J  your 
t  know 
be,  I 
:ers  are 
il  wink 
Ls  skil- 
ginger- 
ig    like 

1  on  to 
1  often, 
r  don't 
It   one 

worth 

calling 

I'm 

rs  will 

boys. 

1  and 

t  got 
'ayne 
looks 
Ibut  I 
;t  her 
him 


4( 


IVayne   Lorimcr   Pier  son. ' ' 


away  off  here  among  strangers,  and  he  so  young. 
'Professor  Pierson  ! '  Why,  I'm  afraid  I  should 
laugh  if  J  tried  to  say  it.  I  guess  I'll  git  along 
without  calling  him  anything,  for  a  spell  at 
least.  But  I  mean  to  try  to  mother  him  up  a 
little.     I  wonder  if  he  likes  custard  pie  ?  " 

"You  better  save  your  petting,  mother,  for 
folks  that  will  appreciate  it,"  said  Sarah  Jane, 
briskly,  as  she  whisked  the  completed  ginger- 
bread into  the  oven  ;  "  he  looks  dow  nright 
masterful  to  me.  He  may  be  young,  but  if 
he  doesn't  know  what  he  is  about,  I'll  miss  my 
calculation.  I  don't  believe  he  wants  any  cud- 
dling, not  from  us,  anyhow;  he'll  see  to  it  that 
the  young  ones  call  him  '  Professor '  or  ar.y- 
thing  else  he  wants  them  to,  or  take  the  con- 
sequences." 

In  ignorance  of  all  these  opinions  concerning 
him,  and  in  supreme  indifference  as  to  what 
the  Thompson  family  thought  about  anything, 
Wayne  got  through  with  Saturday.  He  visited 
the  school  house  and  found  it  very  different 
from  the  college  buildings  with  which  he  was 
flimiliar.  Still,  it  wasn't  a  bad  schoolhouse  in 
its  way,  and  the  young  man  succeeded  in  becom- 
ing somewhat  interested  in  it.  He  meant  to 
do  his  best  for  the  scholars  committed  to  his 
care.  It  is  true,  he  told  himself,  that  he  had 
been  forced  into  teaching  before  he  was  readv, 
and  compelled  to  take  that  which  offered  rather 


iv 


•llij ' 


'I         :t 


'1 


:  -' 


By    J4^ay  of  the    IVildcrness. 

than  what  he  would  have  chosen,  but  the  pupils 
should  not  suffer  in  consequence. 

By  evening  he  had  forced  himself  to  admit 
that  he  must  ask  for  a  conference  with  Sarah 
Jane,  and  learn  from  her  what  he  could  about 
his  new  surroundings. 

She  accepted  the  invitation  with  alacrity,  and 
led  the  way  to  the  "  parlor,"  which  Wayne 
had  not  seen  before.  It  was  a  large  dreary- 
looking  room,  immaculate  as  to  neatness,  but 
the  wall  paper  was  a  distinct  blue,  while  the 
new  ingrain  carpet  was  in  vivid  green  plenti- 
fully bestrewn  with  red  flowers.  The  few 
pictures  on  the  walls  Wayne  >ronounced 
"  atrocious,"  and  the  mantel  ornat  s  vvere,  if 
possible,  worse  than  the  pictures.  Yet  Sarah 
Jane  had  spent  the  entire  afternoon  in  trying 
to  make  the  room  assume  the  proper  air  for  a 
parlor,  and  flattered  herself  that  she  had  suc- 
ceeded. She  had  robbed  her  own  little  room 
of  its  single  ornament,  a  wreath  of  hair  flowers 
set  in  a  glass  frame,  and  it  now  occupied  the 
place  of  honor  in  the  centre  of  the  mantel. 
She  could  not  have  understood  the  feeling  of 
utter  disgust  that  Wayne  Pierson  had  for  it. 
Neither  was  he  able  in  the  least  to  appreciate 
the  little  thrill  of  elation  that  Sarah  Jane  felt, 
as  he  took  the  Rochester  burner  from  her 
hand  and  set  it  on  the  table,  then  drew  the 
window  shades,  and  pushed  forward  the  large 
140 


ness. 


''  Jl^aync   Lorimcr   Pic r son ^ 


pupils 

admit 
Sarah 
about 

ty,  and 

^ayne 

ireary- 

ss,  but 

ile  the 

plenti- 

le    few 

3unced 

fere,  if 

Sarah 

trying 

r  for  a 

suc- 

room 

lowers 

td  the 

lantel. 

ig  of 

tor  it. 

ieciate 

felt, 

her 

the 

large 


willow  rocker  for  her  use,  while  he  helped  him- 
self to  a  straight-backed  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table.  Sarah  Jane  was  not  accustomeil 
to  young  men  who  took  such  small  burdens  as 
lamps  from  her  hands,  nor  who  offered  her  a  seat, 
and  themselves  remained  standing  until  she  was 
seated.  She  had  not  been  accustomed  to  these 
things,  but  she  liked  them.  I'hey  seemed  a 
legitimate  part  of  the  "  masterful  "  world  to 
which  this  young  man  belonged.  She  had  no 
objection  whatever  to  securing  glimpses  of  it 
through  him. 

"  I  shall  have  to  look  to  you  for  a  good  deal 
of  help  in  getting  acquainted  with  my  work," 
he  said,  and  his  manner  was  more  genial  and 
friendly  than  it  had  been  before.  "  You  have 
the  advantage  of  me  in  having  already  taught 
in  the  school,  while  I  am  a  novice  as  well  as 
a  stranger." 

Sarah  Jane  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  didn't  have 
much  to  do  with  the  girls  and  boys  who  be- 
long to  your  room,"  she  said,  "  I  only  taught 
the  young  ones.  1  did  have  a  grammar  class 
though,  from  that  room.  Professor  Smith  gave 
it  to  me  last  term  because  he  was  too  lazy  to 
take  it  himself.  If  there  was  ever  a  man  too 
lazy  to  breathe,  it  was  Professor  Smith  ;  but  I 
didn't  mind,  I  liked  the  class.  I  think  grammar 
is  nicer  than  anything  else,  anyhow.  Don't 
you  like  to  parse  ?  " 

141 


l\ 


!     ! 


Ill 


^    ^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

"  I  believe  I  did  rather  enjoy  it  at  one  time," 
said  Wayne,  trying  not  to  have  his  smile  too 
pronounced.  "  1  fancy  I  shall  not  especially 
enjoy  teaching  grammar,  however.  If  1  should 
develop  as  lazy  a  nature  as  your  friend,  Mr. 
Smith,  am  I  to  understand  that  you  will  take 
the  class  again  ?  " 

Sarah  Jane's  laugh  this  time  had  a  touch  of 
sarcasm  in  it.  "  You  aren't  lazy,"  she  said, 
"  whatever  else  you  are ;  I  don't  believe  there 
is  a  lazy  hair  in  your  head;  and  Professor 
Smith  is  no  friend  of  mine  —  I  detested  him. 
But  of  course  I  will  do  whatever  I  am  given 
tc  do.  There's  a  hard  lot  of  boys  in  the 
school ;  a  few  of  them  I  just  feel  as  though  I 
should  like  to  get  hold  of." 

"  Are  they  such  hard  fellows  to  manage  ?  " 
said  Wayne,  with  a  smile  that  he  feared  was 
sickly  ;  he  felt  that  the  last  thing  in  life  that 
he  wanted  to  do  was  to  "  get  hold "  of  such 
boys. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  thoughtfully, 
"  I  can't  say  that  they  are ;  not  If  they  were 
managed  right,  which  they  haven't  been,  accord- 
ing to  my  way  of  thinking.  I  don't  know  as 
you  will  agree  with  me,  but  it  always  seems  as 
though  boys  ought  to  be  treated  like  human 
beings  that  had  some  rights,  and  did  some 
thinking,  now  and  then,  instead  of  either  like 
wild  animals  or  fools.  Don't  you  think  so  }  " 
142 


'* 


»> 


as 

IS  as 

[man 

lome 

like 


''  IJ^ayne  Lorimer   Pierson^ 

"  I  should  think  there  could  not  be  two 
opinions  about  that,"  said  Wayne,  with  a  sud- 
den accession  of  respect  for  Sarah  Jane.  He 
had  imagined  her  as  wanting  to  "get  hold" 
of  some  of  those  boys  with  her  muscular 
young  arms,  and  try  the  effect  of  that  "  wallop- 
ing" at  which  her  father  had  hinted;  and,  lo  ! 
she  was  speaking  of  a  moral  hold. 

"There's  Beet  Armitage  now,"  continued 
Sarah  Jane,  "  he's  the  ringleader.  What  he 
doesn't  do,  he  gets  the  credit  of  doing,  so  in 
the  end  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  Beet  is 
expected  to  be  bad,  first,  last,  and  always,  and 
he  hasn't  the  courage  to  disappoint  people,  so 
he  lives  up  to  their  expectations.  That's  the 
way  it  looks  to  me.  I've  always  said  that 
I  didn't  think  Beet  had  half  a  chance  at  home 
nor  anywhere  else.  And  if  a  boy  don't  get 
his  rights  at  home;-'vv'Ty  how  can  he  expect  to 
get  them  anywhere  ?  " 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Wayne,  a  shadow  cross- 
ing his  face  at  the  thought  of  his  home  and 
his  lost  rights.  "What  is  the  matter  with 
Beet's  home  ?  What  an  extraordinary  name 
he  has,  by  the  way !  Can  thai  be  his  full 
name  ? " 


H3 


' 

TT 

1' 

'      i  ■: 

; 

! 
1 

i 

1 

'  11'  I 


i'  !■       I 


i  f 


I , .  1 1 

It 


J; 


XL 

^' BeiAune  Breckenridge  Armitager 


N 


O,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "  it  isn't  half 
of  it ;  he's  got  name  enough  —  too 
much  of  it.  Bethune  Breckenridge 
Armitage,  that's  the  whole  of  it ; 
and  when  Beet  is  up  to  any  extra  piece  of 
mischief,  he  is  sure  to  write  the  full  name  out 
large  somewhere." 

A  sudden  flush  of  color  mounted  to  Wayne's 
very  temples ;  he  shaded  his  eyes  ostensibly 
from  the  Rochester  burner,  but  in  reality  from 
Sarah  Jane.  He  had  been  unpleasantly  re- 
minded just  then  of  "  Wayne  Lorimcr  Pier- 
son  "  spread  over  that  page. 

"  But  for  short,  we  call  him  Beet;  and  that 
is  what  he  gets  most  of  the  time,  from  teachers 
and  everybody.  Though  we  did  have  a 
teacher  once  who  thought  that  teachers  oughtn't 
to  use  nicknames.  What  do  you  think  about 
it  ?  " 

Wayne   gave  an  evasive  answer  and   asked 
another  question  about  Beet,  and  Sarah  Jane, 
who  had  arrested  her  rocking-chair  to  get  his 
144 


u. 


I    ■»• 


""% 


f-n'l 


?» 


fiat 

:rs 

a 

li't 

»ut 


iiy 


'^  Bethune  B.  ArmitageT 

opinion  of  nicknames,  considered  his  evasion 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  then  resumed  her 
rocking  and  her  narrative. 

"  Why,  Beet  has  an  uncomfortable  home,  I 
suppose ;  I  never  thought  he  was  altogether  to 
blame ;  I  think  in  most  cases  like  that  there  is 
blame  on  both  sides.  You  see,  it  is  a  mixed- 
up  family:  Beet  has  a  half-brother,  or  —  well 
a  kind  of  a  half-brother,  his  stepmother's  son, 
a  regular  molly  coddle  of  a  boy  who  has  spent 
his  life  whining  and  complaining  of  Beet  and 
getting  him  into  trouble.  He's  smart,  Joey  is, 
in  his  way  ;  and  he  has  managed  somehow  to 
pull  the  wool  over  Beet's  father's  eyes  ;  and  he 
is  a  stern  kind  of  man,  Mr,  Armitage  is,  and 
the  consequence  is.  Beet  gets  all  the  scoldings 
and  whippings  and  none  of  the  fun.  And  the 
village  people  meddle  and  make  things  worse. 
Beet's  got  a  bad  name,  around  town  ;  you  see, 
the  boy  is  so  brimful  of  mischief  that  he  can't 
keep  out  of  it;  and  he's  played  a  joke  of  some 
kind  on  pretty  nearly  every  man  and  woman 
in  the  country  around,  so  they  are  ready  to 
believe  everything  bad  that  they  can  of  him, 
and  his  stepmother  is  willing  to  furnish  all  the 
material  they  want.  Don't  you  see  how  it 
might  be?  Then  the  boys  in  school  —  and 
girls,  too  —  are  so  used  to  hearing  him  blamed, 
that  they  join  in  and  help.  If  anything  goes 
wrong,  no  matter  what,  the  cry  is  right  away 


)fr:~'- 


m   11 


m 


u 


i! 


': 


!  I 


(  * 


E 


lill" 


\  Mi  ■. 


By    Jl^ay  of  the    JViUerness. 

that  Beet  Armitage  is  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  and 
some  of  the  things  I  believe  in  my  heart  he  is 
as  innocent  of  as  a  baby  ;  but  you  can't  prove 
that,  and  so  he  is  getting  hardened,  Beet  is,  I 
just  expect  that  boy  will  go  to  ruin  unless 
somebody  steps  in  and  helps  him,  and  it  seems 
too  bad.  He  is  a  nice-looking  boy  as  ever 
was,  when  he  is  in  good  humor." 

Wayne's  face  needed  shading  still.  There 
was  certainly  contrast  enough  between  "  Beet's" 
position  and  his,  yet  there  were  points  of  simi- 
larity that  could  not  fail  to  interest  him.  Was 
he  possibly  to  be  given  a  chance  to  study  his 
own  life  problems  as  they  presented  themselves 
lo  others  ?  He  was  painfully  interested  in 
Beet,  yet  he  did  not  want  to  show  too  much 
of  it.  He  studied  how  to  word  his  questions 
in  a  way  to  give  his  assistant  no  hint  of  other 
interest  than  that  of  a  teacher.  But  she  did 
not  wait  for  questions.  Her  interest  was  evi- 
dently keen  and  sincere. 

"  There's  one  thing  about  Beet,"  she  began 
again,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  "  that  seems  to 
me  to  be  in  the  way  of  doing  anything  for 
him  ;  it's  a  regular  stumbling-block.  He  isn't 
over  sixteen  years  old,  not  a  day  ;  but  I  tell  you 
he  can  hate  like  a  man  of  sixty  ;  and  if  he 
doesn't  just  about  hate  that  half-brother  of  his, 
why  then  I  don't  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it,  not  in  a 
146 


'^  Bethune  B.   Armitage^ 


and 


tegan 
IS  to 

|g  for 
isn't 

II  you 

lif  he 

If  his, 

the 

in  a 


■4 
f 


young  fellow.  Why,  I  believe  he  would  kill 
the  boy,  if  he  could  get  a  good  chance,  without 
any  more  hesitation  than  he  would  have  for  a 
worm.  '  Snake  ! '  he  says,  *  old  slimy,  slipperv 
snake  !  he  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  to  live,  and 
1  hate  myself  for  letting  him  do  it.'  And  he 
looks,  while  he  is  saying  it,  so  fierce  and  so  full 
of  hate  that  I  declare  I'm  sometimes  afraid  he 
will  be  left  to  do  something  dreadful  !  Well, 
you  can  see  what  kind  of  a  school  we  are  likely 
to  have,  with  a  boy  like  him,  and  a  boy  like 
his  brother  to  keep  us  in  hot  water  half  the 
time.  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you  about  it,  I 
suppose ;  I  don't  want  you  to  get  scared  out 
before  you  begin  ;  but  I  did  want  somebody  to 
come  along  who  would  help  poor  Beet.  I  was 
glad  when  the  other  fellow  gave  us  the  slip ; 
he  didn't  look  of  the  right  sort  to  do  it." 

"  Am  I  to  be  allowed  to  hope  that  I  look 
'  of  the  right  sort  '  ?  "  A  playful  response 
seemed  to  Wayne  ine  only  one  that  could 
be  made,  but  Sarah  Jane  took  it  seriously 
enough. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of 
penetrative  thoughtfulness.  "  I  can't  make  up 
my  mind.  He  needs  a  master,  Beet  does,  and 
I  guess  you  could  be  that,  if  you  took  the 
notion  ;  but  then,  some  kinds  of  masters  would 
only  hurry  him  on  to  ruin  himself" 

For  some  reason  Wayne  felt  uncomfortable 

H7 


:ri 


i    ■  ■ 


By    IVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

under  the  gaze  of  her  keen  ey«;s.  He  did  not 
wish  to  have  his  inner  motives  dissected.  He 
made  haste  to  change  the  subject  and  get  on 
more  general  ground. 

"  I  shall  evidently  have  to  make  Bethune 
a  subject  of  special  study.  Now  as  to  other 
matters.  How  has  the  work  been  planned 
heretofore  ?  I  do  not  wish  .o  make  too  many 
innovations  just  at  first." 

"  Why,  1  dunno  as  there  has  been  much 
plan,  except  th  i  regular  thing,  you  know.  We 
all  came  into  :he  big  room  first  thing  ever^^ 
morning  for  prayers,  and  then  I  took  m.y 
youngsters  out  and  managed  them  by  myself 
the  best  I  could.  Mr.  Smith  didn't  give  me 
any  help,  I  can  tell  you  ;  he  was  too  lazy  for 
that.     First  thing  he  had  was  —  " 

But  Wayne's  attention  had  been  called  to 
a  more  important  subject  than  Mr.  Smith. 
He  could  distinctly  feel  the  waves  of  color 
surging  over  his  face  as  he  asked  the  ques- 
tion, — 

"Does  the  school  always  open  with  —  with 
religious  exercises  ?  " 

"  Mercy  !  yes ;  you  don't  suppose  we  are 
heathen,  do  you,  because  we  live  out  West  ? 
We  have  prayers  every  morning  as  regular 
as  we  have  spelling  and  arithmetic.  Deacon 
Colter  would  look  after  us  in  a  hurry,  if  we 
didn't.  It  is  the  only  thing  he  is  particular 
148 


led  to 
mith. 
color 
ques- 

with 

|e  are 

'est? 

;ular 
facon 
[f  we 

:ular 


''  Bethune  B.   Armitage^ 

about.  He's  a  go?d  man,  the  deacon  is,  but 
he's  awful  ignorant." 

"  And  this  Mr.  Smith,  did  he  conduct  the 
service  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  ;  there  wasn't  anyboay  but 
him  and  me  to  do  it.  Oh,  the  deacon  comes 
in  once  in  a  while  in  time  for  prayers,  and  I 
used  to  be  real  glad  to  see  him  ;  the  deacon 
can  pray,  I  tell  you,  as  though  he  meant  it, 
and  he  does  every  time.  Mr.  Smith  never 
asked  him  to  read  in  the  Bible  but  once.  He's 
a  terrible  reader,  and  Mr.  Smith  thought  he 
could  read  elegantly.  Well,  he  could  ;  but  his 
prayers  didn't  amount  to  shucks.  What  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Mr.  Pierson  }  Your  face  got 
just  as  red  and  now  it  is  pale.  You  ain't  sick, 
are  you  ?  Mother  could  give  you  something, 
if  you  don't  feel  well ;  she's  a  naster  hand  at 
nursing  people  up." 

"  I  am  perfectly  well,  thank  you,"  said 
Wayne,  with  unnecessary  hauteur.  "  I  am 
interested  in  learning  all  about  this  matter. 
Do  I  understand  you  that  it  is  a  rule  of  the 
school  to  open  each  session  with  some  religious 
service  ?  What  I  mean  is,  do  the  board  of 
trustees  require  it.^^  " 

"  Why,  of  course  !  Don't  they  always  ? 
Even  Squire  Willard,  who  isn't  much  on 
practising  religion,  some  folks  think,  wants  the 
school  children  brought  up  all  right.     For  that 

149 


■'^-  : 


m 


'V 


fi 


I     ; 


'i\'\ 


i 


I  i<  ,;■ 


By    If^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

matter,  he  wants  everything  done  that  they  do 
down  to  Westover.  Hasn't  he  talked  West- 
over  to  you  yet  ?  Why,  Mr.  Pierson,  do  you 
really  mean  that  they  don't  have  prayers  in 
college  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly;"  and  Wayne  felt  that 
his  face  was  growing  red  again.  "  But  in  col- 
lege there  are  generally  clergymen  among  the 
professors." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  shouldn't  think  they  would 
need  a  clergyman  just  to  open  school  with  a 
short  prayer.  You  are  one  of  that  kind,  aren't 
you  r 

"  A  clergyman  ?     Oh,  no,  indeed  !  " 

It  was  Sarah  Jane's  turn  to  blush  to  the  very 
roots  of  her  hair. 

"  I  know  that,"  she  said,  with  an  embarrassed 
laugh.  "  You  don't  suppose  I  took  a  boy  like 
you  for  a  minister,  do  you  ?  But  I  mean  you 
belong  to  the  kind  of  people  who  know  how  to 
pray.     Aren't  you  a  member  of  the  church  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  that  honor.  Is  that  one  of  the 
requisites  demanded  by  the  deacon  you  men- 
tioned ?  " 

"  N-o,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  very  slowly.  "  I 
dunno  as  it  is.  Fact  is,  I  never  thought  about 
it ;  I  s'posed  all  teachers  were  church  members. 
Though  I'm  not  one  of  those  folks  that  think 
joining  the  church  is  everything.  I  should 
have  liked  Mr.  Smith  better  if  he  hadn't  been 
150 


rassea 
like 
you 
low  to 
h?" 
>f  the 
men- 

"I 

about 
ibers. 
think 
ould 
been 


'^  Bcthunc  B.   Armitage^ 

a  professor ;  it  would  have  seemed  more  hon- 
est, because  it  didn't  appear  to  mean  any- 
thing with  him.  But  I  had  a  notion  that 
you  — 

She  came  to  a  distinct  stop,  and  seemed  not 
to  mind  Wayne's  eyes  fixed  searchingly  upon 
•her.  There  was  silence  for  so  long  that  he  felt 
compelled  to  assist  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  insinuatingly.  "  You  thought 
I  was  —  not  a  clergyman,  but  —  " 

Sarah  Jane  drew  a  long  sigh  and  brought  her 
eyes  back  from  the  floor  to  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  you  was  one 
of  that  sort;  a  praying  man  ;  and  if  you  aren't, 
I'm  awfully  sorry  ;  because,  I  tell  you  honestly, 
I  don't  believe  anybody  else  can  do  a  thing  for 
Beet  Armitage.  He's  got  so  far  along  on  the 
wrong  road,  and  has  such  a  feeling  of  hate  in 
his  heart  for  that  tormentor  of  his,  that  nothing 
but  a  new  heart  altogether  is  going  to  do  him 
any  good.  And  I  thought  a  young  man,  and 
a  stranger  might —  Well,  there's  no  use  in 
talking.  But  you'll  have  to  manage  morning 
prayers,  somehow.  We  can  all  rattle  over  the 
Lord's  Prayer  together,  I  suppose  ;  that  is  what 
Mr.  Smith  did  whenever  he  felt  particularly 
lazy,  or  when  he  felt  so  cross,  and  scolded  so 
much  just  beforehand,  that  he  could  see  him- 
self that  his  prayers  didn't  match  his  life.  I 
never  liked  saying  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  concert, 

151 


II 


u 


;  1; 

r! 

'    i 


M 


i!.(H 


J!''    ^ 


!'{,   t 


r  > 


^    //^^  ^/    t/)e    JVildcrness. 

someway  ;  the  youngsters  get  in  the  habit  of 
rattling  it  off  so  carelessly,  you  know,  that  it 
doesn't  seem  like  praying ;  but  it's  better  than 
nothing,  I  suppose." 

Wayne  interrupted  her  with  dignity:  "We 
shall  be  able  to  arrange  all  that  to  our  satisfac- 
tion, I  hope.  Miss  Thompson ;  but  now  let 
me  learn,  if  I  can,  just  what  class  of  scholars 
we  have  to  deal  with,  and  just  what  has  been 
accomplished  heretofore."  He  drew  a  note- 
book and  percil  from  his  pocket,  and  began  to 
write  rapidly  while  Sarah  Jane  was  put  through 
a  systematic  list  of  questions  that  kept  her  wits 
keenly  at  work  to  give  satisfactory  answers,  and 
increased  her  respect  for  a  "  college  education." 

"  Didn't  he  put  me  through,  though  !  "  she 
said  to  her  father,  who  listened  with  the  keen- 
est relish  to  her  account  of  the  evening's  inter- 
view. "  I  tell  you,  that  young  fellow  knows 
what  he  is  about!  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we'd 
have  such  teaching  in  this  district  as  we  never 
had  before,  if  he  does  look  like  nothing  but  a 
boy.  It's  a  great  thing  to  have  a  college  edu- 
cation, father." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  blacksmith,  "  so  'tis ;  but 
it's  a  great  thing  to  have  uncommon  sense, 
too;  I'll  risk  you,  Sarah  Jane;  don't  you  go 
to  being  down  in  the  mouth  because  you  ain't 
college  educated.  You've  done  the  best  you 
could ;  and  you  ain't  as  old  as  Methuselah  yet. 


\-\ 


t  of 
at  it 
than 

^We 

isfac- 
kV  let 
lolars 
been 
note- 
an  to 
•ough 
r  wits 
s,  and 
tion." 
"  she 
keen- 
inter- 
nows 
we'd 
inever 
but  a 
edu- 

but 

tense, 

[u  go 

ain't 

you 

yet. 


'^  Bcthunc  B.    Arm  it  age!''' 

Who  knows  but  you  will  git  an  addition  tacked 
on  to  your  education  sotne  day  ?  " 

It  was  the  good  blacksmith's  dream  to  give 
this  girl  of  his  not  only  a  college  education, 
but  the  best  that  life  had  to  give  to  any  girl. 

Meantime,  the  boy  with  the  "college  educa- 
tion "  went  upstairs  in  no  enviable  frame  of 
mind.  It  was  all  very  well  to  put  on  a  brave 
face  before  Sarah  Jane,  and  awe  her  with  ques- 
tions about  "  text-books,"  and  "  language 
lessons,"  and  the  "  vertical  system,"  and  other 
technical  words  and  phrases  that  were  as  A  B  C 
to  him,  but  were  new  and  bewildering  to  her  — 
the  fact  remained  that  he  was  simply  appalled 
with  the  magnitude  of  the  duties  that  lay  before 
him.  He  sank  into  the  side  of  the  feather  bed 
and  tried  to  think  how  he  should  manage  about 
those  opening  exercises.  He  lead  in  a  service 
of  prayer  !  Above  all  other  efforts  the  thought 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer  dismayed  him.  What- 
ever else  he  might  be,  he  assured  himself  posi- 
tively that  he  was  not  a  hypocrite,  and  could 
such  as  he  repeat  each  morning  those  solemn 
words,  "  I'orgive  us  our  debts  as  we  forgive 
our  debtors  "  ?  Had  he  forgiven  Leon  ?  Did 
he  even  care  to  forgive  him  ?  Had  he  any  ex- 
pectation or  intention  of  trying  to  do  so?  No, 
assuredly  he  had  not.  On  the  contrary,  he 
distinctly  intended  at  some  time  in  his  life  to 
repay  the  villain  with  interest  for  all  the  injury 


I 


lil 


'   '  III  I 


i|! 


■  I     I 


I 


By    Ji^ay  of  the    ll^ihkrncss. 

and  pain  he  had  caused  him.  The  mode  of 
paynietit  should  he  rehiied,  dignified,  such  as 
a  gentleman  might  indulge,  hut  it  should, 
nevertheless,  he  keen  and  deep-reaching.  And 
he  was  sufficiently  well  educated  theologically 
to  be  sure  that  it  would  not  be  in  accord  with 
the  spirit  of  the  Lord's  Prayer.  He  and 
"  Beet,"  it  seemed,  were  in  the  same  condition. 
Beet  could  no  more  truthfully  offer  the  Lord's 
l^rayer  than  he  could  himself.  Why  should 
the  superstitions  of  an  ignorant  deacon  or  two 
force  them  to  it?  Yet  Sarah  Jane  had  been 
very  emphatic ;  and  it  seemed  altogether  prob- 
able that  such  an  intiovation  as  a  school  carried 
on  without  any  form  of  religious  service  would 
not  be  tolerated  in  this  community. 

Sarah  Jane,  well-informed  though  she  cer- 
tainly was  on  many  points,  had  not  even  heard, 
it  seemed,  thn  there  were  schools  conducted 
without  any  reference  to  the  forms  of  religion. 
The  thought  occurred  to  him  that  the  way  of 
escape  might  be  to  put  this  duty  off  upon  her 
shoulders.  He  smiled  a  cynical  smile  as  he 
r^ld  himself  that  undoubtedly  she  was  one  of 
"  that  kind."  Then  he  laughed  as  he  imagined 
her  consternation  over  such  a  proposal.  That 
would  be  infinitely  worse  than  the  lazy  Mr. 
Smith  had  done.  She  had  made  it  very  appar- 
ent that  the  "  Professor,"  and  no  other,  was  the 
one  who  was  expected  to  lead  in  such  a  service. 

J  54 


s. 


''  BcthNne   B.    /trmitagc^ 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  The  longer  he  thought 
about  it,  the  more  dismayed  he  grew.  As  he 
heard  the  distant  rumble  of  a  long  freight  train 
crawling  through  the  town,  a  wild  desire  to 
pack  his  bag,  and  slip  softly  out  at  the  un- 
guarded front  door,  and  board  that  train  came 
to  him  with  such  force  that  he  half  arose  from 
the  billows  of  feathers  that  had  closed  around 
him.  To  be  free  once  more,  to  bid  good-by 
to  the  red  school  house,  that  he  was  afraid  he 
hated  ;  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  burly 
blacksmith  and  the  insufferable  "Jim";  to 
assume  no  responsibility  toward  "Beet"  and 
his  "molly  coddle"  brother;  to  be  stabbed  no 
more  by  Sarah  Jane's  keen-cut  phrases  that  she 
did  not  know  were  stabs.  It  was  a  tremendous 
temptation.  He  might  do  it  dignifiedly.  He 
might  even  wait  until  Monday  morning,  and 
then  call  upon  Squire  Willard  and  assure  him 
that,  after  giving  the  matter  careful  considera- 
tion, he  had  decided  that  he  was  not  fit  to  cope 
with  the  peculiarities  of  the  "  upper  deestrict." 
It  was  really  the  thought  of  his  predecessor 
who  had  failed  them,  that  held  this  young  man 
a  prisoner. 

"  Why  did  Mr.  Jenkins  fail  to  keep  his  en- 
gagement with  you  ?  "  he  had  suddenly  thought 
to  ask  of  the  blacksmith  while  they  were  at 
supper ;  and  the  answer  had  been  full  and  em- 
phatic. 


II 


liy    II  (fy   of    the    irililcrncss. 


[  ■ 


i\ 


"(iot  ii  higher  chaiuc  soinrvvluMcs  c-Isc,  (li;i('s 
the  reason.  I\Lulc  an  out  and  out  cngaj.!;cinrnf, 
put  it  in  Mack  and  white,  and  IkuI  his  hox  of 
hooks  sent  on  ahead,  and  all  that  ;  and  (hen 
U;ive  us  (he  slip  !  It  \va'n'(  (ill  at(er  tlu-  sehool 
had  ought  (o  have  (ook  up  (ha(  he  was  heard 
tVoin;  and  (hen  he  owned  up  that  he  could  u;ct 
a  whole  dollac  a  week  more  in  another  dis(rie( 
that  he  knew  of,  and  he  (houyht  it  his  duty  to 
go  there,  llis  'ilutv,'  sho  !  I  hate  to  see  a 
man  do  a  thing  as  mean  as  pusley  :hh1  (hen 
whine  about  ,/n/\'.  What  become  of  his  prom 
iscs?  Isn't  a  man's  wonl  gooil  tor  nothing, 
I'd  like  to  know?  I'm  a  poor  man,  aiui 
always  expect  to  be,  ami  I  have  to  think 
about  dollar:;  as  careful  as  anvbody,  I  reckon, 
but  I've  never  seen  the  time,  and  I  hope  I 
never  shall,  when  tor  a  iloUar  a  week  I  can 
afford  to  go  back  on  my  word.  His  name 
was  l\/ra,  too ;  pity  to  waste  a  good  Bible 
name  that  way  !  He  said  he  had  a  younger 
brother  to  help,  and  must  earn  all  he  could. 
Sho  !  a  fellow  who  can't  be  trusted,  can't  help 
anybody." 

And  Wavne  Picrson,vvho  had  supposed  him- 
self utterly  indifferent  to  the  entire  Thompson 
family,  discovered  that  he  did  not  want  to  bring 
his  character  into  contempt  before  the  worthy 
blacksmith.  He  had  promised,  and  for  one 
term,  at  least,  he  must  endure. 

.56 


XII. 
rhc  Way  Out. 


I 

can 
me 
l)le 
^cr 
Id. 
lelp 

un- 
ion 
ing 
thy 
>ne 


RI\/\("IIIN(i  the  conclusion  he  had,  it 
was  hkc  WaytK"  Picrson  to  face  the 
situation  tnanhdiy,  and  set  himself  sc 
riously  to  work  to  discover,  if  possi 
hie,  an  honorahle  way  out  of  this  uii(leni:d)le 
dilemma.  There  were  tinee  ways  out,  and  one 
of  them  lav  uphill.  I  le  stated  the  j)roposi- 
tions  to  himself:  first,  the  custot)i  of  opening 
the  school  with  religious  exercises  niight  he 
ahandoned  ;  second,  a  niinister  or  deacon  might 
he  engaged  to  come  in  each  morning  and  con- 
duct the  service;  third,  he  tmist  do  it  himself! 
lie  discussed  these  different  plans  at  some 
length,  examining  pros  and  cons.  The  sum- 
ming up  was  something  like  this :  the  first 
scheme  might  be  difficult  of  accotn|)lishmerit. 
It  would  prohahly  antagonize  the  religious 
prejudices  and  thus  be  ur.wise,  even  if  consent 
from  the  trustees  cfMjk:  be  secured.  Ilie  sec- 
ond plan  vv^as  al*<>  beset  with  objections.  If  h^* 
should  engage  a  s^>rt  of  chaplain,  he  might  be 
late  occasionally,  or  son)e  mornings  not  appear 


"B 


■i  r>! 


i. 


lA 


ii 


'  1' 


i       I 

> 

t. 

I 

I 


By    ft^ay  of  the    lillderness. 

at  all  ;  then  embarrassments  would  necessarily 
follow.  There  was  danger,  too,  that  such  an 
arrangement  might  lose  him  the  respect  of 
the  school  and  the  community,  and  his  own 
self-respect  as  well.  Moreover,  there  was  a 
ludicrous  side  to  hiring  a  man  to  do  his  pray- 
ing. It  was  not  to  be  thought  of  There 
remained  this,  then  :  he  himself  must  lead  a 
daily  religious  service  in  the  school.  He 
would  not  allow  himself  to  argue  the  point 
even.  It  had  to  be  done,  and  he  must  do  it. 
The  problem  now  was  —  how  ? 

He  arose  from  his  enervating  feather  seat, 
and  began  to  pace  the  floor  with  knitted  brows 
and  arms  folded  rigidly  behind  him.  While 
he  pondered  he  was  conscious  of  an  undercur- 
rent of  irritating  thought  going  on,  as  if  an 
exasperating  somebody  were  buzzing  in  his 
ears,  reminding  him,  in  the  words  of  the  old 
proverb,  that  he  had  "jumped  from  the  frying- 
pan  into  the  fire,"  and  that,  though  he  had  got 
out  of  one  set  of  troubles  for  the  present  by 
running  away,  he  had  plunged  into  others  — 
greater  ?  Not  by  any  means  ;  these  could  be 
met  and  conquered,  he  told  himself  And  it 
began  to  look  after  a  time  as  if  he  had  reached 
some  satisfactory  conclusions,  for  he  prepared 
for  rest  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  settleil 
something,  saying  to  himself  as  he  was  falling 
asleep,  *'  If  only  school  did  not  open  Monday, 

158 


The    JVay   Out. 


seat, 
rows 
^hile 
rcur- 
f  an 
his 
old 
ing- 
l  got 

t  by 
rs  — 
d  be 
id  it 
ched 
ared 
ttled 
tiling 
I  day, 


I   could    manage   it   nicely  with   another  week 
before  me." 

School  did  not  open  Monday.  And  the 
young  teacher  had  a  struggle  with  his  con- 
science not  to  feel  real  delight  thereat.  That 
very  night  a  merciless  storm  swept  through  the 
valley,  uprooting  trees  and  damaging  buildings. 
1  ne  only  roof  that  was  "  lifted  clean  off  and 
laid  down  in  a  medder,"  in  the  language  of  one 
of  the  villagers,  was  that  of  the  schoolhouse. 
It  was  "queer,"  the  trustees  told  each  other  as 
they  stood  in  dismay  about  the  wrecked  build- 
ing, thru  this  particular  roof  should  be  the  one 
to  fly  off. 

"  Looks  'most  as  if  Providence  had  some- 
thing agin  us,"  a  sour-fliced  man  remarked ; 
"  school  ort  to  'a'  took  up  most  a  month  ago, 
and  here,  jes's  we  git  all  ready,  off  goes  the 
ruff.  No  tellin'  how  long  we'll  be  hendered 
now." 

"  For  week  at  least,  I  hope,"  wa>^  the  men- 
tal comment  of  the  teacher-elect,  as  he  stood 
with  the  others  surveying  the  ruin  the  storm 
had  wrought. 

*'  Miss  Thompson,"  Wayne  began  one  even- 
ing after  supper,  when  order  had  been  restored 
to  the  large  room  wh:ch  served  as  both  dining 
and  sittinjT  roon. 

"  You  neean  :  Miss  Thompson  me,"  that 
youiig  woman  disclaimed. 


■m 


.  !'  1 


!ii||i,|i 


I  ' 


By    IVcjy  of  the    Jllldcrness. 

"  La,  yes,"  her  mother  interposed  ;  "  Sarah 
Jane'd  hardly  know  who  you  meant." 

"  Miss  Sarah,  then  ;  how  will  that  do  ?  " 

And  then  Sarah  Jane  had  a  swift  dawning 
perception  that  the  world  to  which  this  young 
man  belonged  counted  it  more  refined  to  use 
one  name  rather  than  two,  and  she  had  a 
twinge  of  regret  that  she  had  not  long  ago 
insisted  upon  being  called  either  "Jane"  or 
"  Sarah." 

"Sarah  will  do,"  she  said;  "and  you  may 
leave  off  the  '  Miss.'  " 

But  Wayne  had  no  intention  of  levelling  all 
walls  of  formality,  and  putting  himself  on 
terms  of  such    intimacy  as   this  would  imply. 

"  I>id  singing  form  a  part  of  the  opening 
exercises  in  the  school  .^  "   he  asked. 

""No;  we  tried  it  awhile,  but  Professor 
Smnth  couldn't  sing  more'n  a  frog,  and  there 
wa'n't  any  one  to  lead." 

Are    there    any    good    voices    among    the 


(I 


pu^ 


.ils? 


"Oh,  ves  ;  Beet's  got  a  spletidid  voice,  and 
Joe  sings  too,  and  plays  the  violin.  Ruby 
Krkowles,  she  sings  like  a  nii:^htingale — " 

Wayne  had  heard  some  stirring  notes  from 
Sarah  Jane  herself  as  she  moved  briskly  about 


in 


th 


e  mornmir. 


(( 


Why  did  not  you  or  the  nightingale  girl 


lead  ?  "  he  asked 
i6o 


all 


the 

and 
Aiby 

•om 
>out 


g 


ir 


I 


The    IVay   Out. 


"  He  never  asked  us  to  lead.  He  thought 
a  girl  couldn't  do  anything,  anyway." 

"  I  notice  you  have  an  organ  in  the  other 
room.  Suppose  we  ask.  a  few  of  the  older 
scholars  to  come  in  to-morrow  evening  and 
sing,  if  your  mother  is  willing." 

"  (3h,  I  can't  play  yet,"  Sarah  Jane  demurred, 
"and  1  don't  know  anybody  who  can  —  on  the 
organ.  I  only  took  lessons  a  little  while,  and 
can  just  pick  out  a  few  tunes." 

"  I'll  do  the  playing,"  Wayne  said,  "  if  you'll 
help  sing." 

Filled  with  admiration  at  thought  of  a  man 
who  could  play  the  organ,  both  mother  and 
daughter  hastened  to  express  their  delight  at 
the  proposal,  Mrs.  Thompson  adding,  in  an 
overflow  of  generosity,  "Jest  you  use  that 
great  lazy  room  whenever  you  like." 

Accordingly,  the  next  evening  saw  Beet  and 
Joe  Armitage,  with  a  half  dozen  others,  gath- 
ered about  the  organ  in  Mrs.  Thompson's 
front  room,  where  the  new  teacher  played 
and  led  the  sitiging.  They  were  shy  at  first 
of  the  "  new  professor,"  those  boys  and  girls  ; 
but  when  thev  saw  that  he  threw  his  whole  sclt 
into  it,  and  played  and  sang  with  spirit,  they 
found  courage  to  let  out  their  voices  and  call 
for  fivorite  hymns  or  songs,  the  organist,  with 
or  without  notes,  playing  them  protnptly, — 
"  Dixie,"  "Swatiee  Ri\cr,"  "  Star-spangled  Ban- 

i6i 


■ri»« 


1 

1 

lii*-^- 

^^it'r 

T-      I" 
1 

1 

■  :-■  v 

■ 

w 


•■\ 


By    JVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

ner,"  and  "  Robin  Adair,"  up  to  "  Coronation  " 
and  other  stately  old  airs  of  their  fathers.  The 
singing  was  not  artistic;  it  was  better;  it  filled 
both  performers  and  listeners  with  delight;  the 
latter  consisting  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thompson 
and  Jim,  who  nodded  approvingly  and  whis- 
pered,— 

"  Mv  !  but  he's  a  smart  chap  !  " 

It  was  not  by  any  means  for  his  own  amuse- 
ment that  Wayne  had  gathered  this  singing 
company,  though  he  did  have  an  object — two 
of  them.  One  was  to  train  singers  for  the 
school,  the  other  looked  to  the  establishment 
of  friendly  relations  between  himself  and  the 
older  pupils.  What  his  reserved  nature  had 
most  dreaded  in  this  undertaking  was  contact 
with  lawlessness.  He  realized  that  it  would 
not  be  an  easy  matter  for  one  not  many  years 
the  senior  of  some  of  the!n  to  establish  au- 
thority without  a  certain  amount  of  conflict, 
unless  he  could  by  some  means  forestall  possi- 
ble rebellion,  and  make  those  pupils  his  friends. 

And  surely  it  seemed  as  though  the  question 
of  subduing  the  worst  boy  in  school  was  far 
toward  being  solved  that  night.  Beet  loved 
music,  and  when  he  was  assured  that  he  had  a 
fine  bass  voice  which  needed  only  cultivation  to 
make  it  first  class,  his  secret  delight  knew  no 
bounds;  added  to  this,  when  the  master  did  not 
put  on  airs  as  if  he  knew  it  all,  but  asked  his 
162 


The    Jray   Out. 


»n  to 

no 

not 

his 


^ 
■^ 


opinion  occasionally,  why  then  Beet  was  pre- 
pared to  champion  the  new  teacher  whom  he 
beforehand  threatened  to  *' thrash."  It  was 
cause  for  pride,  too,  in  Beet's  mind,  that  the 
upper  district  had  a  teacher  straight  from  col- 
lege who,  with  all  the  rest  he  knew,  could  play 
the  organ  and  sing  one  part  as  well  as  another. 
Westover  couldn't  go  ahead  of  mat.  He  had 
stopped  singing  himself  at  times  to  hear  the 
professor's  wonderful  tenor,  perhaps  gliding 
into  soprano  and  from  that  to  bass,  according 
to  their  needs.  Yes,  he  was  even  willing  to 
call  him  "professor"  now,  though  he  had 
scornfully  declared  on  the  day  of  his  arrival 
that  he  never  would,  because  he  was  nothing 
but  a  boy.  But  now,  by  those  marvellous  gifts, 
he  was  worthy  of  all  honor.  Indeed,  Beet  was 
in  the  way  of  becoming  a  hero-worshipper  when 
a  day  or  two  later  the  teacher  accepted  from  him 
an  invitation  to  a  ball  game  and  seemed  well 
up  in  all  the  ins  and  outs  thereof.  Moreover, 
he  had  called  him  —  not"  Beet"  nor  "Bethune" 
—  which  he  hated  —  but  "  Armitage."  "  When 
a  fellow  got  called  like  that  he  was  next  door  to 
being  a  man." 

The  conquest  of  the  others  who  had  met  to 
sing  was  also  assured,  for  greatly  to  their  delight 
they  were  invited  to  consider  themselves  a  part 
of  a  school  choir  to  meet  regularly  for  practice 
and  instruction.     They  would  begin  at  once, 

163 


1 

r 

"TT«> 

p.; 

i 

l,i. 

i 

t 

fi.    ■ 

I'l    1; 
■'1    ' 

2 


i    ! 


•' 


By    Jf^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

and  while  they  waited  for  the  schoolhouse  would 
improve  the  time  and  sint^  every  evening.  The 
zest  with  which  he  enten,d  into  this  work,  and 
the  interest  inspired  by  his  pupils,  surprised  the 
teacher  himself.  He  drew  them  into  conversa- 
tion after  the  singing  hour  each  night,  studying 
them  meanwhile,  curiouslv',  as  if  all  were  rare 
specimens  in  biology.  The  bright  ojies  sprung 
questions  upon  him  which  he  might  have  been 
puzzled  to  answer  had  he  not  been  an  omnivo- 
rous reader  with  fine  memory;  as  it  was,  the 
prompt  replies,  combining  instruction  with  fun, 
charmed  them  into  admiration  and  hearty  good 
will.  In  all  this  there  was  no  overstepping  the 
line  between  teacher  and  pupil;  Wayne's  natu- 
ral dignity  precluded  that  as  well  as  their  rev- 
erence for  his  knowledge. 

Work  upon  the  schoolhouse  went  on  but 
sljwly,  the  roof  being  so  badly  wrecked  that  a 
new  one  had  been  found  necessary  ;  rain  also 
added  to  the  delay.  Meantime  Wayne  was  by 
no  means  idle.  He  made  calls,  studied  all  sorts 
of  theories  for  conducting  a  model  school,  and 
sent  for  many  things  he  considered  necessary  to 
its  success,  chief  among  which  was  a  cabinet 
organ.  An  old  friend  of  his  father  was  a  dealer 
in  musical  instruments  in  Chicago.  Wayne  had 
confidence  in  his  judgment  and  honesty,  and 
v/rote  asking  that  a  second-hand  organ  at  a  certain 
price  be  sent  him  without  delay.  He  considered 
164 


^, 


The    IV ay   Out. 


bat 
I  at  a 
also 

by 

;orts 
and 
to 
met 
;aler 
had 
and 
•tain 
;red 


this  and  some  other  expenses  a  necessity  if  he 
meant  to  make  his  first  venture  out  in  the  world 
a  success,  and  he  did,  even  tiiough  the  sphere 
was  humble;  he  should  do  his  best.  When 
therefore  his  otiier  prudent  self  interfered,  charg- 
ing him  with  improvidence,  he  ignored  the  ad- 
monition as  youth  is  prone  to  do,  and  went  on, 
ordering  besides  several  copies  of  singing  books. 
This  done,  he  sent  home  for  maps  and  pictures 
collected  through  the  years  by  means  of  gifts 
and  his  own  purchases.  Apparently  he  had 
forgotten  that  his  stay  was  to  be  short  in  this 
place,  and  was  planning  as  if  for  years. 

Wayne's  first  view  of  the  inside  of  the  school- 
house  had  been  most  depressing  ;  he  had  taken 
in  each  dismal  detail, —  the  air  of  desolation,  the 
hacked  desks,  the  smoky  walls,  the  grimy  win- 
dows, and  the  indescribable  odor  adhering  to 
an  old  schoolroom:  odors  made  up  of  genera- 
tions of  lunches, — bread-and-butter,  and  head- 
cheese, pie,  and  doughnuts.  It  had  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  could  not  spend  months  there. 
Why  should  not  a  place  in  which  young  people 
stayed  half  of  the  time  be  a  little  better  than  a 
barn }  He  confided  his  desires  and  ambitions 
concerning  that  room  to  Sarah  Jane,  asking,  as 
the  time  drew  near  to  occupy  it,  "  Can't  we  do 
something  to  make  that  place  more  attractive?" 

This  was  a  new  idea :  no  teacher  had  ever 


suggested  the  like  before. 


6s 


i^n 


\  t 


I;: 


1^^! 


By    IVay  of  the    IVilderucss. 

"The  boys  would  just  racket  around  and 
spoil  everything  if  we  did,"  Sarah  Jane  answered 
after  reflection. 

'■Oh  no,  I  think  not;  I  was  a  boy  not  so 
lo!ig  ago,  and  I  didn't  do  those  things." 

"  You  !  "  —  and  the  girl  put  an  emphasis  on 
the  word  as  if  language  failed  to  express  the 
immeasurable  distance  between  him  and  them. 
*'  Well,  we  can  make  it  clean  any  wav,"she  said 
alertly;  "  I'll  ^o  right  off  and  get  the  girls  to 
come  and  help." 

Certain  coP  ge  men  would  have  opened  their 
eyes  wide  in  astonishment  could  they  have  seen 
their  elegant  classmate  actually  carrying  water 
for  a  company  of  girls  who  swept  and  scrubbed 
and  scoured  till  windows  and  desks  and  floors 
testified  to  the  virtues  of  soap  and  water  and 
strength  —  the  trustees  had  hired  the  walls 
whitened,  thanks  to  the  energies  and  insistence 
of  Sarah  Jane. 

"  Now,"  that  young  woman  said  to  her  helpers 
as  thev  started  for  home  that  night,  ''^  he  thinks 
all's  done  that's  going  to  be.  Let's  surprise 
him  a  bit.  What  if  we  get  some  shades  for 
those  staring  windows  ?  How  many  will  take 
a  paper  and  go  round  and  raise  enough  to  buy 
'em?  I'll  give  a  dollar.  It's  got  to  be  done 
to-morrow,  and  the  next  day  they  must  be 
bought  and  put  up." 

Each  girl  promised,  and  began  that  very  night 
i66 


M 


• 


iks 
•ise 
for 
Lke 
mv 

be 


[ht 


The    ll^ay   Out. 


to  coax  money  (uit  of  evervhodv  thev  met,  as 
onl\'  girls  can.  The  outcome  of  those  days  of 
hard  work  was,  that  the  Saturday  night  before 
the  opening  of  school  saw  a  transformation  in 
the  old  place.  I'he  windows  were  clothed  in 
neat  shades,  the  teacher's  desk  stood  on  a  large 
square  of  bright  carpeting,  the  stove  shone  in 
blackness,  and  in  each  window  was  a  plant  — 
choice  treasures  culled  from  many  homes  ;  the 
assistant  teacher  brought  a  pot  of  pinks  filled 
with  buds  and  a  monthly  rose,  these  graced  the 
professor's  desk. 

It  remained  now  for  him  to  do  his  part 
toward  beautifying.  Securing  Beet's  help  that 
evening,  they  went  to  the  schoolhouse  with 
great  secrecy.  A  rush  of  surprise  and  delight 
came  over  him  when  he  saw  what  had  been 
done ;  though  reared  in  luxury,  he  keenly 
appreciated  these  homely  efforts.  Me  noticed 
that  the  room  of  his  assistant,  though  clean, 
was  utterly  bare,  she  had  herself  managed  that 
all  the  brightness  should  go  to  his  room. 
The  unselfish  kindness  touched  him,  and  when 
the  pictures  were  unpacked  he  ha- tened  to  hang 
upon  the  walls  of  the  small  room  a  lovely 
Madonna  and  two  gay  little  water-colors. 
When  the  organ  was  set  up  and  the  walls  cov- 
ered with  maps  and  pictures,  it  really  seemed 
an  exceedingly  cheerful,  pleasant  place,  and  the 
young  teacher  turned  the  key  with  a  sense  of 

167 


% 


U  ;•^ 


H  it 


By    IVay  of  the    JVildcrness. 


satisfaction,  even  elation,  which  he  would  not 
have  thought  possible  for  him  when  first  he 
surveved  that  ungainly  building  —  the  red 
school  house. 

Among  the  books  Wayne  had  ordered  was 


one  rather  new  to  him.      Its    title 


was 


The 


Book  of  Common  Prayer."  He  sat  down  to 
examine  it  with  eagerness.  It  was  to  be  an 
important  factor  in  sm  )othing  the  way  about 
those  opening  exercises.  While  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  honestly  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer 
with  that  one  searching  clause  over  which  he 
stumbled,  he  yet  had  no  hesitancy  in  going  as 
far  as  he  could  consistently.  He  was  willing 
and  glad,  he  argued,  to  acknowledge  God  as 
Sovereign  of  the  universe,  the  father  and  pro- 
tector of  mankind,  the  one  from  w^hom  all 
blessings  flow,  and  deserving  of  honor,  praise, 
and  gratitude.  He  was  not  even  averse  to 
confessing  a  sense  of  unworth  in  a  general  way, 
but  the  story  of  the  atoning  sacrifice  was  to  him 
as  an  idle  tale.  He  had  not  yet  apprehended 
Christ,  like  that  other  young  man  of  old 
whom  the  MaLcer  loved  but  sent  on  his  way 
sorrowing. 

Certainly  there  could  be  nothing  wrong  in 
reading  prayers,  Wayne  told  himself,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  practised  by  a  large  evangelical  de- 
nomination, and  neither  would  it  be  irreverent 
to  omit  the  parts  that  he  could  not  conscien- 
168 


The    ITay    Out. 


tiously  repeat  when  it  was  hut  the  eoiiiposition 
of  a  man.  Why  should  he  not  !nake  use  of 
this  book  ?  Why  should  he,  when  his  train- 
ing had  been  in  another  direction  ?  I'he  \ oung 
man  did  not  like  to  go  deep  into  this  question. 
He  would  have  been  forced  to  admit  that  it 
seemed  a  solemn  thing  to  come  before  (ioti 
with  words  of  his  own,  especiall\'  when  there 
had  been  no  public  profession  of  allegiance. 
He  was  not  at  home  in  the  language  of  prayer ; 
fluent  enough  on  all  other  themes,  his  tongue 
might  here  forget  its  cunning,  and  that  that 
would  be  most  humiliating,  settled  the  ques- 
tion. 

When  the  pupils  came  trooping  into  school 
that  Monday  morning,  they  stood  in  open- 
mouthed  amazement.  Was  this  lovely,  clean, 
bright  place  school  ?  Pictures  and  plants  and, 
above  all,  an  organ  !  It  would  seem  that  all 
this  had  a  refining  influence  at  once,  for  some 
of  the  boys  went  back  to  wipe  their  feet. 
Even  the  wildest  boys  forgot  their  usual 
pranks  on  opening  dav.  And  no  wonder; 
for  when  the  bell  rang,  here  went  Beet  and 
some  of  his  choice  spirits  to  the  upper  end 
of  the  room  to  special  seats  set  in  a  half- 
circle  about  the  organ.  Evidently  their  leader 
had  abdicated.  When  the  professor  took 
his  seat  at  the  organ,  and  led  ofl^"  in  "  Cor- 
onation  " — Joe  Armitage's    violin   joining  — 

169 


'!(?•'■-■ 


H. 


it 


oi 


!  I 

i  I 


I 


By    ff^ay  of  the    IVildcnicss. 

when  tlie  trained  choir  "  hurst  into  song," 
the  teacher's  fine  voice  soaring  uppermost,  then 
the  whole  school,  carried  away  hy  a  wave  of 
enthusiasm,  joined  with  fervor  in  the  grand  old 
hymn  and  made  the  rafters  ring.  "  Whoever 
knew  we  could  sing  like  that!"  —  their  tri- 
umphant glances  said  to  each  other.  Then 
came  a  speech  from  the  teacher,  hrief  and  prac- 
tical;  he  asked  them  to  cooperate  with  him  in 
making  this  the  very  best  school  in  thecouiUv. 
He  expected  to  give  to  them  a  winter  of  hard 
work,  a!ui  would  they  not  proinise  faithful  study 
and  gooti  conduct  in  return  ? 

"  Let  me  beg  you  to  bear  in  mind,"  he  said, 
"that  your  work  is  not  simply  to  commit  and 
recite  lessons,  but  to  disci pliiie  mind  and  mould 
character." 

The  few  impressive  words  of  the  young 
teacher,  his  face  glowing  with  earnestness, 
gave  to  some  of  them  the  first  glimpse  of  an 
idea  that  every  hour  spent  in  that  room  was 
of  utmost  importance  and  must  be  accounted 
for 

There  followed  a  short  reading  of  Scripture, 
then  the  prayer,  and  not  even  Sarah  Jane,  when 
she  iieard  the  words,-—"  Father  of  all  mercies, 
we,  thine  unvvoii;by  servants,  do  give  thee  most 
humble  and  hearty  thanks  for  all  thy  goodness 
and  loving  kindness  to  us,"  —  knew  that  they 
came  from  a  prayer  book;  true,  the  teacher  had 
170 


l^be    IV(/y   Out. 


a  fine  memory  and  r.cctled  not  to  glance  at  the 
hook.  After  this  came  another  hymn,  and  the 
opening  exercises  for  that  day  were  over. 

So  much  had  they  been  enjoved  that  all  were 
sorry  when  thev  ended.  l^'ormerly  this  had 
been  the  most  tetlious  time  of  the  whole  day, 
and  usually  tlevoted  to  mischief;  on  this  morn- 
ing they  had  no  leisure  to  throw  even  one  paper 
hall  or  twitch  the  braids  of  the  girl  who  sat  be- 
fcre  them.  They  were  singing  for  dear  life  out 
of  bran,  span  new  books  and  listening  to  a  new 
Bible,  for  the  teacher  had  chosen  a  striking  les- 
son, ami  matle  it  so  vi\id  by  correct  reading 
that  it  was  true,  as  they  said,  they  "  never 
heard  it  afore." 

Strangely  enough  the  teacher  enjoyed  it  more 
thini  any  one  of  them.  Those  rough,  untaught 
voi,'es  chiiming  in  with  fervoi,  those  eager,  up- 
turned faces,  appealed  to  him.  He  wanted  to 
help  them.  He  forgot  that  he  had  seas  of 
trouble,  and  that  the  place  was  dreary,  and  that 
he  longed  inexpressibly  for  college  life  again. 
This  was  his  school,  his  kingdom,  and  he  would 
make  it  fair  and  strong. 


't 


171 


T 


■frauTT 


'^'m 


^mti 


1  fi 


I    1 


XJII. 

Progress,   and  Problems, 

THERE  are  reasons  why  one  would 
like  to  linger  over  that  winter  which 
marked  Wayne  Pierson's  first  experi- 
ence of  independent  life.  In  many 
respects  it  was  an  entirely  different  winter  from 
the  orie  he  had  imagined  on  the  first  night 
when  he  sank  among  those  obnoxious  feathers, 
and,  according  to  his  custom,  made  a  mental 
picture  foreshadowing  it.  To  his  own  un- 
bounded surprise  he  found  himself  thoroughly 
enjoying  his  work.  More  than  once,  before 
spring  opened,  he  told  himself  with  little  thrills 
of  satisfaction  that  about  one  thing  he  had  cer- 
tainly been  right :  he  was  evidently  designed 
for  a  teacher.  His  scholars  would  have  agreed 
with  him.  As  the  weeks  passed,  and  the  new 
plans  that  had  been  introduced  were  continu- 
ally reenforced  with  others,  thus  keeping  up  the 
pleasant  excitement,  every  boy  and  girl  in  the 
school  voted  him  in  their  different  grades  of 
language  a  success.  Those  morning  services 
especially,  that  were  to  have  been  such  a  trial 
172 


Progress^   and  Problems, 


to  the  new  teacher.  l>eciiiiie  an  acluul  sour 


ce 


of 


pride.  The  idea  of  having  a  trained  choir  took 
possession  of  the  leader.  Me  was  charnied  with 
the  material  that  he  fount!  in  the  rough,  and  spent 
no  httle  time  in  developing  it.  Sarah  Jane, 
he  told  himself,  if  she  had  had  proper  advan- 
tages, would  have  possessed  a  reallv  remarkable 
voice;  as  it  was,  it  was  worth  cultivating.  As 
for  Beet,  or  "  Armitage,"  as  he  was  now  being 
calleti  even  by  some  of  the  older  scholars, 
\Va\  ne  declared  that  he  shoukl  have  opportu- 
nities, lie  was  still  onlv  a  b()\',  and  '*  one  of 
these  days "  he  shouK'  become  such  a  basso 
that  there  wouki  be  a  satisfaction  in  hearing 
himself  spoken   of  as   his   first   teacher. 

"  Reflected  glory,"  said  the  young  man  to 
himself,  with  a  laugh  so  gleeful  that  it  woukl 
have  astonished  his  stepmother;  "  why  shouldn't 
I  have  a  little  of  that,  since  my  own  expecta- 
tions have  been  nipped  in  the  butl  ?  "  He 
could  think  this,  and  still  laugh,  because  he 
did  not  put  any  confidence  in  such  thoughts. 
His  determination  to  take,  one  day,  such  a 
position  in  the  cultureti  workl  as  his  father 
would  hear  of  with  pride  and  joy,  was  never 
stronger;    of  course  he  would  succeed. 

His  home  relations,  by  the  wav,  were  pecul- 
iar, anci  deserve  special  mention.  During  the 
five  days  that  had  intervened  between  Wayne 
Pierson's  disappearance  and  the  arrival  ot  that 


i'\ 


i   I 


M 


By    M^ay  of   the    U^ilderness. 

letter  which  it  cost  him  so  much  trouble  to 
write,  his  father  had  grown  old  rapidly.  His 
heart  was  torn  with  a  hundred  different  anx- 
ieties, every  one  of  them  enhanced  by  the  fact 
that  his  conscience  was  by  no  means  at  rest. 
He  remembe'-ed  the  harsh  words  that  he  had 
last  spoken  to  his  son  :  what  if  they  should  be 
the  last  that  he  could  ever  speak  to  him  !  As 
the  days  passed,  this  torture  grew,  and  he  went 
about  with  so  haggard  a  face  and  eyes  so  sunken, 
that  his  wife  was  alarmed.  He  gave  almost 
no  attention  to  his  p'-essing  business  concerns, 
but  gave  himself  to  trying  to  find  trace  of 
his  son,  and  yet  to  do  it  quietly,  in  a  way  that 
would  shield  the  boy  from  further  exposure  of 
every  sort.  His  visit  to  the  'Ic^e  and  his 
interview  with  several  members  of  the  r'aculty 
opened  his  eyes  in  a  way  that  did  not  lessen 
the  pain  at  his  heart.  He  had  been  unjust, 
then,  all  the  time  to  his  boy  !  and  to  the  trust 
imposed  on  him  by  the  boy's  dead  mother ! 
The  Faculty  spoke  very  plainly ;  the  only 
fault  they  had  ever  had  to  find  with  his  son 
had  been  this  unaccountable  absence  from  his 
work,  just  at  the  beginning,  as  they  might  sav, 
of  his  last  important  year.  They  had  looked 
to  him  to  do  the  institution  honor;  he  was 
without  exception  the  finest  scholar  that  had 
been  with  them  for  years.  What  was  detain- 
ing him  ?     Hie  father  mentally  groaned,  but 


Progress^   and 


Prohli 


ems. 


offered  no  -jutvvard  sign  ;  his  manner  was  in- 
direct but  jignified.  He  left  the  officials  think- 
ing that  some  grave  family  matter,  about  which 
the  keen-brained  lawyer  did  not  choose  to  talk, 
was  detaining  their  favorite  pupil  for  a  few  days. 
The  dean,  being  confronted  by  his  own  let- 
ter that  had  caused  all  the  trouble,  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  impatient  dismay.       How  was 

i.  « 

it  possible  that  he  could  have  transposed  those 
two  names  !  yet  that  he  had  done  so  was  evi- 
dent ;  his  apologies  and  regrets  were  sincere 
and  profuse,  but  the  father  scarcely  heard  them, 
and  was  so  preoccupied  with  the  all-absorbing 
question,  "  Where  is  Wayne  ?  "  that  he  did  not 
take  to  heart  his  stepson's  downfall  as  he  would 
otherwise  have  done.  Indeed,  throughout  the 
trying  experience,  Leon  Hamilton,  if  he  had 
but  known  it,  had  excellent  reason  for  being 
grateful  to  his  brother.  For  once,  Mr.  Pier- 
son  allowed  his  own  boy  to  fill  his  thoughts  to 
the  almost  entire  exclusion  of  that  orher  boy 
to  whom  he  had  earnestly  tried  to  be  a  fither. 
As  the  days  passed  and  he  heard  nothing,  the 
poor  father  told  himself  that  to  hear  that  his 
darling  was  safe  with  h'^  inother  who  under- 
stood him  and  had  never  wronged  him  would 
be  a  relief  Yet,  —  so  strange  are  human  hearts, 
that  no  sooner  had  he  r.\ail  the  letter  which 
at  last  saved  his  reason  to  him,  than  an  ex- 
traordinary reaction   took  place.     Wayne  was 


t     i 


I 


''I  ■  i 


By    fJ^ay  of  the    lll/dcrncss. 

safe,  then,  and  comfortable,  and  had  been  all 
the  time  that  he  had  paced  his  room  through 
sleepless  nights  !  The  letter  sounded  to  him 
so  cold,  so  hard,  so  insolent !  to  talk  about 
paying  him  for  all  the  expense  that  had  been 
incurred  on  'lis  account !  and  to  spread  his  full 
name  "  Wayne  Lorimer  Pierson  "  over  half  a 
page  of  his  letter  !  Oh  I  the  father  was  stabbed 
infinitely  worse  than  the  son  meant  him  to  be. 
In  fact,  justice  must  be  done  to  that  boy  who 
did  not  understand  fathers,  nor  know  very 
much,  after  all,  about  human  pain  ;  he  had  not 
meant  that  sentence  about  repaying  his  father 
as  a  stab.  It  had  been  an  awkward,  blundering 
way  of  giving  expression  to  a  vague  fear  he 
had  that  his  father  was  being  pecuniarily  em- 
barrassed, and  a  desire  to  prove  to  him  that 
his  son  coidd  not  only  take  care  of  himself, 
but  hoped  to  be  in  a  position  to  do  more  than 
that.  So  they  did  not  understand  each  other, 
these  two,  any  better  than  they  had  for  years. 
Smarting  under  the  sense  of  injury  that  came 
with  the  reaction,  the  father  replied  to  the  letter. 
He  said  nothing  about  those  days  and  nights 
of  agony,  that  all  his  friends  could  see  had 
aged  him,  but  in  words  of  smooth  sarcasm  con- 
gratulated his  son  on  having  a  nature  that  en- 
abled him  to  cut  loose  in  a  moment  of  time 
from  home  and  all  home  ties  and  helps,  merely 
because  his  father,  during  a  time  when  he  was 
176 


1 1 


Ult 

If, 


Progress^   and  Problems. 

tortured  by  trouoles  known  only  to  himself, 
had  spoken  a  few  sharp  words  !  This,  after 
careful  consideration,  was  all  the  reference  that 
he  decided  to  make  to  the  dean's  letter  and 
his  own  misunderstanding.  And  he  made  the 
decision  in  love,  too.  Since  Wavne  was  not, 
and,  as  a  student,  never  had  been,  unworthy  of 
his  trust,  why  should  he  pain  him  by  revealing 
all  that  had  been  believed  against  him  ? 

Wayne,  of  course,  knew  nothing  about  it,  — 
so  the  father  argued,  —  and  need  never  know. 
Let  him  continue  to  consider  that  that  last 
interview  referred  on  his  part  to  the  un- 
comfortable relations  between  the  two  young 
men.  Wayne  could  not  consider  himself 
altogether  blameless  here;  though  sometime, 
perhaps,  the  father  told  himself,  he  would  say 
to  Wavne  that  doubtless  he  had  been  often 
deceived  in  this  regard,  as  he  had  in  the  col- 
lege life  —  but  he  could  not  say  it  then  ;  the 
pain  of  Wayne's  letter  was  too  heavy  upon 
him.  His  own  was  brief,  and  cold;  though 
he  closed  with  an  assurance  that  he  shouUl 
always  be  glad  to  hear  from  his  son,  and 
always  ready  to  help  him  to  the  extent  of  his 
ability,  even  to  the  extent  of  paying  all  his 
college  expenses  as  heretofore.  Then  he  said 
that  he  would  not  sign  himself,  "  IvJward 
Kverett  Pierson  "  as  he  did  in  very  important 
business  letters,  but,  "  Your  affectionate  father." 

177 


I' 

ft 


By    JVciy  of  the    IVdderness. 

Wayne  had  blushed  over  this,  and  then  he 
had  sighed  a  long  sigh  so  full  of  disappoint- 
ment that  had  good  Mrs.  Thompson  heard  it 
she  would  have  hastened  to  make  him  a  very 
thick  custar  ^  nie.  He  had  hoped  that  his 
father's  letter  would  throw  some  light  on  the 
strange  charges  that  had  been  made  against 
him,  but  it  had  not.  The  letter  did  not  anger 
him,  as  his  had  angered  his  father;  he  had 
had  time  to  grow  quiet.  It  simply  disap- 
pointed him,  and  he  went  on  misunderstanding. 
He  haci  decided  by  Jiis  time  that  he  had  un- 
doubtedly been  a  fool  to  leave  home  in  the 
way  he  did;  but  he  believed  that  having  done 
so,  the  sensible  thing  was  to  stay  away  and 
carry  out  his  present  trust. 

"  My  father  is  in  financial  trouble,"  he  said, 
as  he  folded  away  the  letter,  "  1  am  quite  sure 
of  it;  that  probably  is  the  explanation  of  the 
'troubles  known  only  to  himself;  does  he 
think  that  I  will  go  back  and  make  his  bur- 
dens heavier!  \i  he  had  confided  in  me,  I 
would  have  lightened  them  long  ago  ;  as  it  is, 
the  least  I  can  do  for  him  is  to  support  my- 
self" 

So  he  wrote  again,  after  a  few  weeks,  a 
short  letter  that  he  tried  not  to  make  dignified, 
but  all  the  time  the  demon  at  his  shoulder 
told  him  that  Mrs.  Pierson  would  read  it  too; 
and  he  must  have  a  care  what  he  said,  so  that 
178 


id, 
ire 
he 
he 
fur- 

;,  I 

is, 


a 


J 


hat 


Progress^    and  Problems. 

she  could  not  twist  it  to  suit  her  views.  And 
she  "twisted  "  it  witn  perfect  ease. 

"  Poor  hoy  !  "  she  said  with  a  sigh,  "  how 
angry  he  is,  and  how  caretuliv  lie  nurses  his 
rage  !  He  is  not  wholly  to  blame  ;  that  ir  hke 
his  grandfather,  I  think  you  told  me.  These 
hereditary  traits  are  so  hard  to  overcome.  Mv 
poor  Leon  inherited  such  a  rolicking,  fun-lov- 
ing disposition  that  I  sometimes  fear  that  he 
will  never  learn  self-control.  All  his  college 
troubles,  you  know,  have  grown  out  <y\  this 
disposition  to  have  a  good  time." 

Letters  were  exchanged  but  rarely  after  that. 
The  father  was  very  busy,  very  wearv  after 
business  hours,  and  very  much  hurt  with  his 
son.  The  stepson  had  gone  wrong,  it  is  true  ; 
but  he  seemed  to  be  really  penitent  and  was 
doing  better  in  college,  and  was  very  thought- 
ful for  him  when  at  home,  while  Wayne  — 
here  the  father  sighed. 

And  the  son,  who  was  working  harder  in 
the  red  schoolhouse  "out  West"  than  he  had 
worked  in  college,  looked  forward  steadily  to 
the  time  when  he  should  be  able  to  "help 
father,"  and  failed  each  week  to  help  him  as  he 
might  have  done.  I'hey  do  it  so  often,  these 
wise,  foolish  boys. 

The  least  satisfactory  part  of  Wayne's  work 
wa>  with  the  boy  Armitage.  Not  in  the  direc- 
tion that  he  had  feared;  no  more  loyal  adhe- 

179 


3   ■!; 


By    ^l(iy  of  the    Jl^ildcrness. 

rent  to  the  new  professor  could  i)e  found  in  the 
school  than  he;  and  being  a  leader,  he  kept 
the  turbulent  spirits  in  admirable  subjection, 
so  that  the  "  contact  with  lawlessness,"  which 
Wayne  hat!  feared,  had  not  to  be  endu'ed. 

Young    Ariiiirage    had   never   realized,  until 
he    came    in     contact    with    Wavne,    that    his 


pow 


er 


ful 


thi 


voice   was   for   any    purpose    but    to 


roar  tnrough  the  woods  with  and  frighten  little 
children.  Under  Wavne's  tuition  he  was  de- 
veloping a  passionate  love  for  music,  which 
went  far  toward  subduing  his  rough  nature. 
That  choir,  bv  the  way,  became  a  continued 
source  of  interest  and  delight.  It  attracted 
marked  attention  in  the  little  village  that  had 
few  objects  of  general  interest.  It  was  Squire 
Willard  who  started  the  custom  which  soon 
became  a  fashion  —  that  of  dropping  in  of  a 
morning  to  the  schoolhouse  for  "  Prayers." 
The  "  trained  choir"  w^as  always  ready  to  en- 
tertain any  guests  who  cai,  :,  and  the  young 
teacher  who  had  grown  used  to  his  prayer  book, 
and  could  de[>end  upon  his  memory,  had  ceased 
to  inwardly  tremble,  even  with  a  dozen  guests 
present,  when  it  fell  to  his  lot  to  roll  off  some 
of  the  majestic  sentences  found  in  his  Book  of 
Prayer.  There  is  no  accounting  for  the  con- 
ceits which  the  human  conscience  will  adopt 
on  occasion.  Wayne's  told  him,  with  a  logic 
that  he  did  not  stop  to  refute,  that  to  read 
l8o 


\ 


I 


I, 


I 


of  a 
»» 
ers. 

en- 

ung 

ook, 

ased 

lests 

ome 

of 

■con- 

opt 

gic 

ead 


i 


Progress^   and  Problems. 

from  ;i  prayer  book,  or  to  formal  I  v  quote  from 
it  the  iileas  of  others,  was  very  different  from 
speaking,  in  prayer,  words  of  one's  own.  He 
was  not  being  a  hypocrite;  h<  was  simply 
"leading  the  devotions  of  others"  in  some 
of  the  grandest  words  that  had  been  written 
through  the  centuries.  H'-  began  himself  to 
like  the  sound  of  them. 

It  was  near  the  holiday  vacation  that  Wayne 
conceived  the  idea  of  training  his  choir  to  give 
a  concert  in  the  little  town  hall,  asking  for 
a  silvei  offering  at  the  close  ;  said  offering  to 
be  used  to  buy  lamps  for  the  schoolhouse,  that 
the  debating  society  which  he  had  formed 
might  have  more  light  on  their  subjects  than 
they  had  been  able  to  secure  heretofore.  The 
idea  met  with  instant  approval  on  the  part  of 
the  choir ;  and  when  with  infinite  pains  the 
training  pr  icrressed  and  culminated  in  a  trium- 
phant finale  in  the  town  hall  before  a  delighted 
audience,  the  admiration  of  the  town's  people 
for  the  prize  they  had  secured  knew  no  bounds. 
Squire  Willard,  especially  when  the  teachers 
from  the  Westover  High  School  came  down 
to  the  concert  in  a  body,  and  expressed  them- 
selves as  delighted,  felt  that  his  cup  of  pride 
was  full.  The  next  day  it  overflowed ;  for 
the  Westover  Chronicle  gave  a  detailed  account 
of  the  concert,  and  closed  with  the  statement 
that   "  Professor    Pierson    and    his    matchless 

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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

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iiin  i' 


:i    ■    t: 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

company  of  trained  singers  had  given  the 
music-loving  people  in  that  vicinity  such  a 
treat  as  they  were  rarely  able  to  enjoy;  one, 
indeed,,  that  would  do  credit  to  any  Eastern 
city."  What  had  Squire  Willard  to  wish  for 
after  that  ? 

Wayne  laughed  uproariously  over  the  notice, 
and  sent  a  paper  heavily  marked  to  his  Aunt 
Crete;  then  sat  himself  down  in  his  study  chair 
to  face  and  study  a  problem  that  continually 
haunted  him.  That  boy  Beet;  he  v/as  not 
doing  for  him  what  ought  to  be  done.  There 
was  nothing  that  Beet  did  not  stand  ready  to 
do  or  to  give  up  doing  for  his  sake ;  he  knew 
that  his  influence  was  unbounded,  and  it  was 
this  that  troubled  him. 

In  numberless  ways  had  Beet  improved,  but 
he  still  hated  his  stepbrother,  the  "  molly- 
coddle," with  all  the  intensity  of  his  fierce 
nature,  and  Wayne  was  compelled  to  admit  to 
himself  that  he  sympathized  only  too  heartily 
with  this  feeling  ;  he  detested  Joey  with  a  vigor 
that  deepened  as  his  knowledge  of  him  grew. 
The  weak,  half-developed,  wholly  spoiled  boy 
was  as  unlike  the  stalwart  athlete,  Leon  Hamil- 
ton, as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be,  yet  there 
were  points  of  similarity  in  the  two  characters. 
Joey  was  what  the  girls  called  "slippery."  He 
had  a  way  of  making  his  own  conduct  look 
angelic,  and  his  brother's  the  opposite,  that  was 
182 


Progress^   and  Problems. 

almost  admirable  in  \t%  skill.  As  Sarah  Jane 
had  said,  he  was  "  sharp  "  ;  on  occasion,  he  was 
also  sly,  and  small,  and  stopped  at  no  mean- 
ness, however  minute,  that  would  help  him  to 
carry  his  point.  How  could  such  a  nature  fail 
to  remind  Wavne  of  what  he  had  suffered  at 
the  hands  of  his  stepbrother  ?  He  wished  that 
Armitage  would  not  come  to  him  for  advice, 
as  he  constantly  did,  or  for  sympathy,  which 
was  worse. 

"  What  would  you  do.  Professor  ?  Would 
you  stand  such  a  thing?  He's  cheating  father, 
too,  and  that's  the  meanest  of  it ;  father  ought 
to  know.  I've  done  my  best  to  tell  him,  but 
he  can't  understand.  I  say  that  fellow  ought 
to  be  killed,  that's  the  only  way  out;  he'll 
go  on  cheating  everybody  till  he  is.  He's 
such  an  everlasting  sneak,  though,  that  I  don't 
know  but  he  would  cheat  the  grave,  and  crawl 
out  of  it  somehow,  if  he  was  dead." 

"  Armitage  !  "  would  the  dignified  young 
"  professor"  say,  "  such  talk  is  unworthy  of  you. 
No  matter  how  much  of  a  villain  a  person  may 
be,  you  are  not  called  upon  to  rid  the  earth  of 
him.  Let  the  hand  of  justice  attend  to  such 
matters." 

"  Well,  now,  I  wouldn't  kill  him,  of  course  : 
I  don't  mean  that  kind  of  talk,  you  know  ; 
but  what  I  say  is,  that  he  ought  to  be  come 
up  with,  somehow.     Don't  you  think  so  ?    Say, 

183 


•n 


'T  '^-.-jT^aT 


iMp. 


h    i 


1 
i.'l 


•i    I: 


i 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

I've  been  thinking  about  a  plan — "  And  then 
would  follow  a  careful  outline  of  a  scheme 
designed  to  bring  the  obnoxious  Joey  into 
humiliating  prominence,  in  the  direction  where 
he  would  most  feel  it.  A  scheme  so  keen  and 
requiring  such  skill  and  courage  to  carry  it  out 
that  Wayne,  who  was  sure  that  a  word  from 
him  would  set  it  in  motion,  could  not  help 
admiring  the  brightness  of  it  all;  but  he  would 
gravely  shake  his  head. 

"  No,  Armitage,  don't  do  that,  it  isn't 
gentlemanly;  you  cannot  afford,  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  revenge,  to  give  up  being  a  gentle- 
man, you  know.  On  account  of  your  own 
self-respect  let  the  whole  thing  pass."  And 
Armitage,  with  something  between  a  groan  and 
a  grimace,  would  mutter  that  he  was  afraid  it 
would  kill  him  to  be  a  gentleman  all  the  time, 
if  that  serpent  had  got  to  live ;  but  he  would 
turn  away,  and  Wayne  would  know  that  he  had 
once  more  conquered.  But  deep  within  his  own 
heart  could  be  heard  distinctly  the  undertone, 
"  You  have  only  conquered  the  surface  ;  you 
are  not  using  your  influence  as  you  might." 

There  were  others,  besides  himself,  v/ho 
knew  this,  and  Wayne  knew  that  they  knew  it. 
Sarah  Jane  had  only  admiration  for  the  brill- 
iant young  professor  who  had  won  even  Beet 
Armitage  ;  but  her  father,  the  keen-eyed  black- 
smith, shook  his  head  and  said  sorrowfully  :  — 
:84 


k^ 


i 


It 


Progress^   and  Problems. 

"  I  wisht  he'd  win  his  heart  into  the  right 
place ;  it's  all  outside,  Sarah  Jane,  and  won't 
last."  Something  in  line  with  the  same  thought 
he  expressed  to  Wayne. 

Then  there  was  Jim  —  that  insufferable 
Jim,  who  used  his  knife  at  all  times  when  he 
shouldn't,  and  who  made  a  fearful  sound  with 
his  lips  when  he  ate,  as  though  his  soup  plate 
were  filled  with/'s  and  /s,  and  who  in  count- 
less other  ways  irritated  the  nerves  of  the  pro- 
fessor.    Jim  said,  solemnly,  one  day:  — 

"  What  Beet  wants  is  somebody  that'll  show 
him  how  to  get  rid  of  the  devil  in  his  own  heart. 
If  that  can't  be  done,  I  wouldn't  give  shucks 
for  Beet's  life,  no  matter  how  much  he  can 
sing." 

And  they  knew,  all  those  people  knew,  that 
"  Professor  Pierson  "  could  do  with  Beet  Ar- 
mitage  what  he  would. 


I: 


185 


Y":^^ 


S" 


il 


i»' 


■  1  r        • 


XIV. 


>> 


IF  Wayne  Pierson,  during  his  rush  through 
that  unique  winter,  had  stopped  to  con- 
sider it,  nothing  would  have  surprised 
him  more  than  his  relations  with  Sarah 
Jane,  or  "  Miss  Sarah,"  as  he  carefully  called 
her.  That  she  liked  the  new  name  —  as  in- 
deed she  liked  everything  that  the  new  pro- 
fessor said  and  did  —  was  most  apparent. 

"  I  wish  Nancy  Ann  wouldn't  go  around 
the  house  yelling  *  Sarah  Jane'  at  me!"  she 
said  to  her  mother  in  a  burst  of  confidential 
indignation.  "Nancy  Ann"  was  an  impor- 
tation from  one  of  the  distant  farms  —  a  girl 
who  wanted  to  work  for  her  board  and  go  to 
school ;  and  the  worthy  blacksmith,  chiefly, 
be  it  confessed,  for  Nancy  Ann's  own  sake, 
decided  that  "mother"  might  as  well  have 
somebody  to  "step  about"  a  little  for  her, 
now  that  Sarah  Jane  had  so  many  nev/  notions 
about  school  that  she  didn't  have  much  time 
to  help.  "Mother"  did  not  take  kindly  to 
the  idea  of  outside  help,  she  would  really 
much  rather  have  done  all  the  "stepping" 
i86 


'*  Sarah:' 


herself;  but  every  member  of  this  family  had 
imbibed  the  spirit  of  the  golden  rule,  and 
tried  to  measure  their  lives  bv  it;  so  Mother 
Thompson  bravely  took  up  her  cross  and  fol- 
lowed Nancy  Ann  about,  and  saw  that  she 
did  her  work  well. 

And  Nancy  Ann  did  yell  names  through  the 
house  in  a  fearful  manner,  that  shall  be  admitted. 

Mrs.  Thompson  smiled  indulgently  on  Sa- 
rah, and  apologized  for  Nancy. 

"  She  don't  know  no  better,  child ;  folks  in 
this  neighborhood  is  used  to  yelling  around, 
you  know." 

"  Well,  she  ought  to  begin  to  know  better ; 
she  goes  to  school.  Professor  Pierson  is  just 
as  particular  with  all  the  girls  !  he  never  says 
*  Nancy  Ann  !  '  He  don't  use  but  one  name 
for  anybody ;  they  never  do  where  folks  are 
educated,  I  guess.  It  makes  me  mad  every 
time  I  forget  and  call  her  '  Nancy  Ann.'  I 
just  hate  it  myself." 

Thereafter,  the  patient  mother  undertook 
the  task  of  teaching  herself  to  say  "  Sarah  "  ;  she 
even  considered  for  one  entire  evening  the 
propriety  of  her  saying  "  Miss  Sarah,"  and  de- 
cided that  that  formality  would  be  unneces- 
sary; but  she  would  like  it  if  "father"  would 
begin  to  say  just  "  Sarah,"  and  Jim,  too.  They 
had  ought  to  when  the  child  hated  the  other 
name.     The  father,  being  admonished,  grum- 

187 


IV 


r 


.  I  :  v*. .  ■•r?s-r"" 


TBimnm 


i  't 


By    IJ^ay  of  the    IVilderness, 

bled  a  little.  He  did  not  see  why  Sarah  Jane 
must  taks  to  hating  her  grandmother's  name 
all  of  a  sudden,  but  he  did  his  best.  A  dozen 
times  in  the  course  of  the  day  he  began,  "  Sarah 
Jane,  —  er  that  is  to  say — Sarah,"  whereat 
Jim  would,  each  time,  laugh  uproariously.  He 
knew  his  limitations,  Jim  did,  and  never,  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter,  attempted  other  name 
than  that  with  which  his  tongue  was  familiar. 

But  "Miss  Sarah"  undoubtedly  improved. 
Duller  eyes  and  ears  than  even  Jim's  would 
have  discovered  it.  They  all  knew  that  she 
was  copying  the  professor,  she  knew  it  herself, 
and  felt  no  sense  of  shame  thereat.  Why  not 
copy  one  so  wise  and  kind  and  so  entirely  her 
superior?  She  did  not  do  it  in  an  offensive 
way,  she  was  not  in  the  least  servile ;  on  the 
rare  occasions  when  she  differed  decidedly  from 
the  professor  after  she  fully  understood  him, 
she  could  argue  with  him  sharply,  and  hold 
her  own  in  a  way  that  surprised  and  interested 
him.  Occasionally  she  carried  her  point,  and 
proved  herself  the  wiser  of  the  two.  But  in 
speech,  and  manner,  and  even  in  movement, 
she  sometimes  consciously  and  often  uncon- 
sciously followed  his  lead,  to  her  marked  im- 
provement. Her  voice,  that  had  been  loud 
and  hearty,  was  learning  the  laws  of  modula- 
tion, and  V/ayne  was  discovering  that  it  was 
really  a  remarkably  pleasant  voice. 

i88 


"  Sarah'' 


He  had  his  day-dreams  about  her,  this  young 
man.  He  was  interested  in  her,  as  he  might 
have  been  in  a  hardy  plant  that  he  had  plucked 
from  the  woods  and  brought  home  and  culti- 
vated. Plants  seemed  sometimes  to  change 
their  very  natures  under  such  treatment;  how 
far  would  human  beings  change  ?  It  was  an 
interesting  study.  Almost  q\  necessity  he 
spent  much  time  with  her.  Endless  were  the 
new  schemes  to  be  carried  out  in  connection 
with  the  school,  and  no  more  eager  assistant 
with  them  all  could  be  imagined  than  was  Sarah. 
Moreover,  he  contrived  to  find  time  to  give 
to  her  for  herself  alone.  She  was  a  fairly  good 
reader,  having  a  natural  manner  that  was 
pleasant  to  Wayne  ;  with  a  few  corrections,  he 
felt  that  she  might  become  an  exceptionally 
good  home  reader,  so  he  set  about  making  the 
corrections,  and  was  gratified  with  his  success. 

"  Sunpose  you  should  read  aloud  to  me  for 
a  half  hour  or  so  each  evening,  in  the  book 
I  am  reviewing?  "  ne  said.  "  It  would  rest  my 
eyes,  and  give  you  practice  in  a  line  that  would 
be  helpful  to  you  as  a  teacher." 

"  I'd  like  nothing  better  in  the  world,"  said 
Sarah,  with  eagerness ;  "  only  that  book  has 
French  words  in  it  every  few  pages,  and  whole 
lines  of  it  every  once  in  a  while.  I  was  look- 
ing through  it  yesterday  when  I  was  clearing 
up    your   room.     I    should    make   worse   fuss 

189 


ir'! 


"i 


1 1 


.1 


)  i 


i 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

with   French  words  than  Tommy  Carter  does 
with   his  third  reader." 

"  That  ought  not  to  be,"  said  Wayne,  with 
the  wisdom  of  a  seer ;  he  felt  wise  enough  at 
times  to  be  this  girl's  grandfather,  their  educa- 
tion and  environment  had  heretofore  been  in 
such  different  worlds.  "You  will  meet  French 
words  very  often  in  reading  aloud,  and  I 
should  wish,  if  1  were  you,  to  cultivate  that 
art ;  you  can  make  good  use  of  it  with  your 
friends.  Why  not  take  up  French  as  a  study, 
and  conquer  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  land  !  "  said  Sarah  with  one  of  her 
sudden  lapses  into  her  very  recent  past,  "  I 
couldn't  do  that;  I'm  too  old.  I  never  had 
that  kind  of  chances." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Wayne,  briskly,  the  latter 
pat-t  of  the  girl's  sentence  had  that  note  of  piti- 
ful regret  in  it  that  made  him  always  want  to 
help  her.  "  I  don't  mean  that  you  shall  pre- 
pare to  teach  French,  or  even  to  read  aloud 
in  it,  but  one  winter's  work  would  be  sufficient 
to  make  you  feel  at  ease  over  stray  French 
words  that  one  finds  scattered  through  Eng- 
lish, and  you  could  go  on,  after  you  had 
acquired  the  pronunciation,  as  far  as  your 
time  or  inclination  led  you.  After  one  catches 
the  trick  of  pronunciation,  it  is  only  a  matter 
of  study  and  the  dictionary.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  help  you  if  you  care  to  try." 
190 


i. 


"  Sarah:' 


So  the  girl  tried  with  all  her  strength,  and 
was  succeeding,  as  she  was  quite  in  the  habit 
of  doing,  with  what  she  undertook  ;  her  teacher 
was  proud  of  his  success  as  a  teacher,  and  the 
honest  blacksmith  had  a  marked  accession  of 
pride  in  his  daughter. 

But  I  started  out  to  tell  you  of  some  of 
Wayne's  day-dreams  concerning  her.  He 
liked  to  sit  by  the  hour  and  fancy  what  effect 
daily  contact  with  a  girl  like  Enid  Wilmer 
would  have  on  Sarah.  Enid,  with  her  soft 
voice  and  her  movements  of  quiet  grace,  and, 
above  all,  with  her  exquisite  taste  in  dress.  It 
was  really  the  dress  question  that  troubled  him 
most.  In  this  sphere  he  could  not  hope  to  do 
much  ;  he  had  accomplished  something  by  dint 
of  affecting  to  dislike  certain  colors  that  were 
especially  unbecoming  to  Sarah,  and  by  merci- 
lessly ridiculing  certain  combinations  of  color; 
that  the  girl  had  quickly  taken  the  hints  thus 
given  was  apparent  in  the  marked  improve- 
ment of  her  appearance;  but  she  needed  more, 
needed  what  he  could  not  do  for  her  and  Enid 
could.  He  fancied  the  quick-witted  girl  de- 
veloping daily,  hourly,  under  such  tuition,  and 
Enid's  joy  and  pleasure  in  it. 

"  She  is  just  the  sort  of  girl  to  delight  in 
such  work,"  he  told  himself,  and  he  mentally 
resolved  to  bring  it  about.  There  was  another 
day-dream  lying  beneath  that,  infinitely  sweeter 

191 


r  • ' 


CSS 


SETT 


<  , 


■  ■  if'' 


hi! 


h  1 


By    JJ(fy  of  the    U^ildcrness. 

than  that.  Sometime,  in  that  mystic  future 
when  he  should  have  secured  the  college 
honors  that  were  waiting  for  him,  and  proved 
to  his  father  what  manner  of  man  he  was,  and 
established  a  fair  home  the  like  unto  which 
there  had  not  been  yet  in  this  world,  there 
should  be  a  lovely  presiding  angel  in  the  home 
whose  name  should  be  Enid.  "  Knid  Pierson," 
he  said  the  name  over  softly,  reverently,  some- 
times,  when  quite  alone,  not  often  ;  it  was  a 
sacred  dream,  it  must  not  be  touched  rudely 
even  by  himself  Bui:  it  was  vivid;  and  the 
girl,  Sarah,  bright,  energetic,  quick-witted, 
grown  quiet  enough  of  manner  and  pleasant 
enough  of  voice  to  fi:  her  world,  should  flit 
in  and  out  of  this  paradise,  doing  her  work  as 
a  teacher  wonderfully  veil,  and  consulting  con- 
stantly with  the  angel  of  his  home,  being 
guided  by  her,  and  bnng  a  success  in  every 
sense  of  the  word  in  the  higher  sphere  to 
which  she  had  been  lifted,  because  he  and 
Enid  had  prepared  ler  for  fitting  into  it. 
He  was  charmed  with  the  thought,  and 
labored  to  do  his  share  of  the  work  faith- 
fully and  well.  He  was  interested  in  young 
Armitage,  and  in  Ruby  Knowles,  Sarah  Jane's 
"nightingale"  ;  she  sang  very  well,  but  Wayne 
had  long  ago  decided  that  her  voice  was  really 
not  so  good  as  Sarah's  own,  still  he  was  in- 
terested in  her,  and  in  a  dozen  others,  and  was 
192 


"  Sarah:' 


making  an  honest  and  painstaking  effort  to 
help  theni  all  he  could  ;  hut  this  particular  girl 
he  had  singled  out  and  invested  with  a  special 
and  steadily  increasintj;  interest  because  she  was 
always  being  associated  in  his  mind  with  Knid, 
and  with  what  Knid  could  and  would  do  for 
her.  To  this  end  he  meniioned  her  in  his 
letters  to  Enid,  making  a  sort  of  foundation 
for  the  interest  that  he  intended  should  be 
built  up  by  and  by,  and  feeling  complacent 
over  the  thought  that  but  for  him  and  luiid, 
the  girl  might  actually  have  been  willing  to 
marry  Jim  !  There  was  no  danger  of  that 
now. 

Yes,  he  wrote  to  Enid ;  not  often,  for  her 
letters  were  rare  treasures  of  his.  Her  mother 
had  returned  now,  and  she  was  a  wise  mother. 
But  he  made  his  letters  so  wise  and  safe  and 
friendly,  that  she  did  not  object  to  their  occa- 
sional coming.  And  her  daughter's  replies 
might  have  been  read  upon  the  housetops 
without  winning  other  than  admiration  tor 
their  brightness.  But,  sometime^  he  planneci  to 
have  other  letters  from  her,  lerters  such  as 
should  never  be  shared  with  any  housetop. 
He  could  imagine  them,  and  he  meant  to 
have  them,  as  fully  as  he  meant  to  have  those 
belated  college  honors. 

Meantime,  his  life  was  not  all  rose  color. 
He   had   put   a    thousand    miles    between   his 


if 

1.! 

'    J' 

■] 

- 

i 

i 

1 

i  ;:sl1 


Al 


]'l 


■>'  i- 


i|-i 


By    Jf^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

mortal  enemy  and  himself,  but  petty  hatred 
and  revenge  can  reach  farther  than  that.  Leon 
Hamilton  had  not  forgiven  his  brother  for  the 
fearful  fright  he  had  given  him  and  all  the 
trouble  tnat  followed  the  exposure  of  his 
actual  position  in  college.  There  had  been 
weeks  together  when  he  waited  tremblingly, 
fearing  each  day  lest  his  stepfather's  displeas- 
ure should  take  the  form  of  a  withdrawal  of 
his  allowance  and  an  order  to  look  out  for 
himself  No  such  dire  results  had  followed, 
owing,  Leon  believed,  to  his  skilful  manage- 
ment ;  but  no  less  did  he  intend  to  be  revenged 
upon  Wayne  for  trying  to  ruin  him. 

Rumors  of  a  trying  nature  began  to  float 
through  the  town  concerning  "the  professor's" 
past  history.  He  had  been  "  suspended  from 
college  for  inattention  to  study  !  "  "  No,  he 
had  been  expelled  fo»-  disgraceful  conduct." 
"  No,  indeed !  he  had  run  away  !  Why,  he 
got  into  an  awful  fuss,  and  actually  killed  a 
man  !  Probably  they  were  looking  for  him 
now!"  The  story  grew,  and  grew;  until, 
when  at  last  it  reached  Wayne  in  the  form 
of  a  solemn  Board  of  Trustees  who  demanded 
the  right  to  know  the  facts,  its  magnitude  al- 
most appalled  that  angry  young  man  himself 
Of  course  he  could  make  verv  short  work  of 
the  stories,  and  he  did.  The  United  States 
mail  was  days  too  slow  for  his  fevered  bio  3d; 
194 


"  Sarah:' 


b:  'i 


he  telegraphed  the  dean,  the  president,  three 
of  his  favorite  professors,  begging  them  to 
reply  at  his  expense  in  the  same  manner. 
They  smiled,  these  cooler-headed,  wiser  men, 
but  they  were  fond  of  Wayne  Pierson,  and 
every  one  complied  with  his  request,  letting 
the  terseness  of  the  telegram  aid  them  in 
positiveness. 

"  No  young  man  in  this  institution  ever 
had  a  better  record." 

"  We  have  only  one  regret,  that  we  lose  you 
from  this  year's  class." 

"  Too  much  cannot  be  said  in  praise  of  his 
character  or  scholarship."  Thus  the  telegrams 
read.  In  some  way,  it  is  possible  that  Squire 
Willard  might  have  told  how,  the  enterpris- 
ing reporter  of  the  Westover  Chronicle  got 
hold  of  every  telegram,  and  the  next  day's 
paper  bristled  with  headlines.  *'  The  Brilliant 
Young  Professor  Vindicated !  "  and  the  like. 
It  was  all  dreadful.  Wayne  groaned  and 
writhed  under  it,  but  it  might  have  been 
worse ;  his  popularity  was  greater  than  ever, 
after  that ;  and  he  had  had  one  revenge. 
When  he  handed  the  last  telegram  over  to 
Squire  W^illard  as  the  Chairman  of  the  "  Board" 
he  said:  "There,  Squire  W^illard,  I  think 
those  will  answer  your  anxieties ;  but  allow 
me  to  say  that  in  my  judgment  your  caution 
came  very  late.     I   might  have  been  the  veri- 


ill  >*• 


1^ 


I" 

it 

J; 


W 


>  ■ 


iiiii 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderncss. 

est  scoundrel  that  my  enemy  tried  to  make 
me  appear,  for  all  that  you  knew  to  the  con- 
trary when  you  placed  me  at  the  head  of  your 
school." 

The  winter  was  quite  gone  before  Wayne 
left  the  little  town  for  even  a  single  night. 
Then,  but  two  weeks  before  the  summer  va- 
cation, he  went  for  a  three  days'  absence.  A 
college  friend,  with  whom  he  had  been  quite 
intimate,  was  about  to  be  married,  and  it  ap- 
peared that  the  home  of  the  bride-elect  was  not 
very  flir  away  from  Wayne's  hiding  place;  so 
he  had  been  summoned  to  serve  as  "  best  man  ** 
at  the  wedding  ceremony. 

During  his  absence,  Sarah  was  to  assume 
the  reins  of  government  at  the  red  school- 
house  ;  but  by  this  time  the  peculiar  system 
of  self-government  after  which  Wayne  had 
striven  was  so  well  understood  in  the  school 
that  no  anxiety  was  felt  on  the  part  of  either 
teacher. 

*'  Our  school  has  been  made  over,"  said 
the  assistant  teacher,  complacently ;  "  it  man- 
ages itself"  And  Squire  Willard  replied  with 
equal  complacence:  "I  reckon  that's  so;  I 
knew  what  I  was  about  when  I  hired  that  chap, 
I  tell  you  !  Fhe  telegrams  were  all  very  well, 
and  I'm  glad,  for  the  sake  of  the  ninnies, 
that  he  got  'em,  but  I  didn't  need  'em,  bless 
you !  /  knew." 
196 


'i, 


"  Sarahy 


said 
lan- 
with 
I 

:hap, 

Iwell, 

lilies, 

)less 


The  young  man  on  the  car  platform  looked 
about  him  with  an  air  of  complacence,  too. 
Who  would  have  imagined  that  he  would  stay 
so  long  in  that  little  town  and  become  such 
a  force  in  it  as  he  knew  he  was  ?  Certain 
of  the  older  "  boys  "  were  lingering  near,  and 
blushed  with  pleasure  and  lifted  their  hats  in 
return  for  his  greeting,  and  said  "  Good-by, 
Professor,  wish  you  a  good  time."  They 
would  not  have  known  enough  to  lift  their 
hats  last  fall.  They  would  have  stared  and 
chuckled,  or  at  best  merely  nodded,  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets.  It  was  a  small  dif- 
ference, perhaps,  but  a  significant  one  ;  it  stood 
for  many  others.  With  what  different  feel- 
ings he  should  reach  the  little  station  next 
Wednesday  from  those  he  had  had  when  he 
first  arrived  ! 

The  mental  statement  was  truer  than  he 
supposed.  The  state  of  mind  in  which  he  re- 
turned to  the  village  was  not  one  to  be  env;ed. 
He  was  pushing  through,  or,  more  properly 
speaking  perhaps,  had  passed  through  what  he 
believed  was  the  fiercest  blow  that  his  stormy 
life  had  yet  given  him.  Yet  it  was  represented 
by  only  a  few  words. 

"So  our  friend  Hamilton  is  to  take  to  him- 
self a  wife,  before  long,  is  he  ?  "  This  his 
college  friend  had  said  to  him  as  they  stood 
together  on  the  evening  of  the  wedding,  going 

197 


'  ■'%. 


i'    fr 


,^lti:''' 


it 


i.t 


>!-'J 


llili 


1, 


i  1  ■ 


By    Way  of  the    JVihkrness. 

over  old  times.  He  knew  something  of  the 
feeling  with  which  Wayne  regarded  his  step- 
mother, and  had  been  by  no  means  a  friend 
of  Leon  himself. 

"  I  don't  know  '  really,'  "  Wayne  had  said 
with  a  little  start  of  surprise ;  he  had  not 
thought  of  such  complications.  "  I  am  not 
in  correspondence  with  that  individual,  and 
haven't  been  posted.  Whom  is  he  to  vic- 
timize ? " 

"  I  don't  know  the  lady.  Alice  has  met 
her,  and  thinks  her  charming.  It  is  a  Miss 
Wilmer,  I  believe  —  Enid  Wilmer  —  singular 
name  that,  isn't  it  ?  " 

There  had  been  more  talk,  but  Wayne  had 
not  heard  it.  This,  then,  was  Leon's  last 
horrible  piece  of  revenge !  He  could  not 
doubt  but  that  the  villain  had  in  some  way  — 
in  the  wildness  of  his  excitement  he  did  not 
stop  to  explain  to  himself  how  —  learned  of 
his  feeling  for  this  girl  and  shaped  his  course 
accordingly  !  At  the  time,  I  think  it  would 
not  have  been  possible  for  Wayne  Pierson  to 
have  given  his  stepbrother  credit  for  having 
a  true  motive  or  a  true  thought  upon  any 
subject. 

Fierce  as  his  mood  was,  he  could  not  but  be 
somewhat  soothed  with  the  manner  of  his  re- 
ception. The  boys  were  at  the  train  in  full 
force,  and  gave  a  glad  cheer  as  he  stepped 
198 


"  Sarah:' 


from  the  platform.  One  seized  his  grip,  an- 
other his  package  of  books,  and  umbrella  ;  they 
would  have  carried  him  on  their  shoulders  if 
he  would  have  let  them.  At  the  blacksmith's 
there  was  no  less  hearty  joy  in  his  coming. 

"Welcome  home,"  Sarah  had  said,  in  the 
doorway;  she  wore  a  white  dress,  and  her 
bright  eyes  had  a  softened  brightness  in  them 
that  was  very  becoming. 

"  Well,"  said  the  good  blacksmith  as  he 
grasped  and  held  the  hand  of  the  professor 
with  painful  energy,  "so  you've  got  back? 
I  reckon  we're  glad;  not  that  we  hav^en't  got 
along  all  right,  we've  made  things  hum  in  the 
school,  same  as  when  you  were  here.  Sarah 
Ja-ah-6'^r^/^,  she's  a  master  hand,  if  I  do  say 
it  that  shouldn't.  But  it  ain't  all  school^  you 
know ;  not  half  of  it.  Sho  !  vou  know  that 
better  than  I  do.  It  beats  all,  Professor,  what 
a  hold  you've  got  on  the  girl.  It  would  kill 
me,  I  reckon,  if  I  didn't  believe  in  you  through 
and  through  ;  or  else  I'd  kill  you^  I'm  afraid. 
Sho!  I'm  talking  nonsense,  you  know;  but 
my  heart  is  jest  bound  up  in  her  Ji'^'d  so's  her 
mother's.  We  had  ambitions  for  her,  I'll 
allow;  but  we  never  did  expect  that  she'd 
marry  a  real  out-and-out  professor,  and  a  brill- 
iant one  at  that,  as  the  West  over  Chronicle  says 
you  are;  and  I  believe  'em,  too." 


199 


I 


i  ■• 


h: 


XV. 


*:.N 


j  I 


hi 


"  Do  you  really  mean  itf'' 

IT  is  impossible  to  describe  the  amazement 
and  chagrin  of  Wayne   Pierson  on  hear- 
ing words  like  these  addressed  to  himself. 
He    was    thankful    that    they   two    stood 
alone  in  the  hall,  and  that  the  din  of  the  supper 
bell  prevented  other  ears  from  hearing  through 
the  open  door. 

Supper  in  this  house  was  wont  to  be  a 
cheerful  meal  to  which  Mother  Thompson  of- 
ten added  a  little  surprise  in  the  shape  of  some 
favorite  dainty  of  her  most  excellent  cook- 
ery. The  young  teacher,  with  healthy  appe- 
tite, had  usually  done  it  full  justice,  —  somehow 
the  cold  pork  and  cabbage  had  drifted  of 
late  down  to  the  lower  end  of  the  table,  con- 
venient to  Jim's  more  substantial  requirements, 
—  to-night  the  table  was  almost  festive  in  its 
outlay :  there  was  chicken  with  toast  and 
cream  gravy,  peach  preserves,  and  a  raisin  cake, 
of  which  the  professor  was  quite  fond.  What, 
then,  was  the  dismay  of  mother  and  daughter 
when  he  appeared  in  the  doorway  to  say  that 
200 


''Do  you  really  mean  it 


^" 


:ment 
hear- 
mself. 
stood 
upper 
rough 

be   a 
n  of- 
some 
cook- 
appe- 
lehow 
:d    of 
con- 
ents, 
iia  its 
and 
cakcj 
hat, 
rhter 
that 


as  he  had  dined  quite  late  he  should  need 
nothing  more  that  night. 

"  For  pity's  sake  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thomp- 
son, "  and  here  I  went  and  got  up  a  nice 
supper  a-purpose  to  welcome  you  home. 
Better  set  down  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  a 
piece  of  cake,  leastways." 

But  that  young  man  excused  himself  with 
a  smile  so  genial  and  a  bow  so  deferential  that 
the  good  woman  felt  complimented  despite  her 
disappointment.  Her  mother  heart  went  out 
to  Sarah,  though,  when  she  took  note  that  her 
face  had  suddenly  clouded  over.  "  Too  bad  !" 
she  said  to  herself,  "  when  she  looked  so  pretty 
in  her  white  dress  an'  took  such  pains  a-settin' 
the  table."  And  then  the  mother  sighed,  as 
it  that  was  the  lot  of  woman,  to  plan  and  try 
to  please  a  man  and  fail,  but  she  cast  anxious 
glances  at  her  girl,  who  ate  sparingly  and  did 
not  talk.  It  was  well  that  her  father  was  inter- 
ested in  hearing  about  a  lawsuit  from  Jim,  who 
had  just  returned  from  Westover,  or  he  would 
have  then  and  there  inquired  into  the  cause 
of  Sarah's  silence.  f 

When  the  evening  wore  on  and  the  professor 
did  not  come  down  to  sing  or  be  read  to,  though 
the  big  lamp  was  lighted  and  a  fire  on  the  hearth 
glowed  cheerily,  the  mother  excused  him  by  s^i.y- 
ing,  "  Most  likely  that  poor  boy  is  all  tired 
out,  and  is  going  to  bed  early;  I'll  fix  a  Httle 

20I 


%■ 


11     I 

Ij 


N 


111 


i 


i: ;    i 


\:       I 


^    /F^  (j/^  t6e    JVilderness, 

bite  and  you  take  it  up  to  his  door."  It  would 
have  been  like  the  brcf^zy,  independent  Sarah 
Jane  to  have  advised  her  mother  to  do  no  such 
thing,  and  that  if  he  didn't  choose  to  come  after 
his  supper,  let  him  go  without  it;  but  Sarah  was 
cast  in  gentler  mould.  The  change  seemed  to 
have  come  when  that  obnoxious  "Jane"  had 
been  dropped.  She  took  the  tray  spread  with 
biscuit,  cold  chicken,  and  cake,  with  a  glass  of 
milk,  and  going  upstairs,  set  it  down  noise- 
lessly at  Wayne's  door,  knocked  on  it,  then 
disappeared  quickly  into  another  room. 

Mrs.  Thompson  was  listening  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs.  That  way  of  doing  things  was  no 
plan  of  hers,  she  expected  to  have  the  tray 
presented  in  person.  But  that  was  not  the 
daughter's  way  ;  it  might  have  been  once,  but 
Sarah  knew  better  now.  Some  mvsterious  in- 
fluence  had  been  at  work  developing  womanly 
delicacy  and  reserve.  Wayne  recognized  this 
as  he  opened  the  door  and  took  up  the  tray  ;  he 
guessed  who  had  brought  it.  Mrs.  Thompson 
would  not  have  so  effaced  herself.  His  heart 
smote  him  as  he  surveyed  the  lunch  and  real- 
ized that  it  was  tender  care  for  him  which 
prompted  it.  He  had  all  his  life  sighed  for 
loving  appreciation  ;  now  it  had  come,  and  he 
felt  like  flinging  it  from  him. 

He  had  been  sitting  in  the  dark  thinking 
over  those  dreadful  words.  What  had  he  done 
202 


I 


iich 
for 
he 


ing 
)ne 


^^ Do  yon  really  mean  it?'''' 

to  delude  this  father  into  beheving  that  he  had 
any  such  intention  ?  Marrying,  in  his  mind, 
was  a  far-away  beautiful  dream  that  might  never 
be  reaHzed.  Years  of  hard,  self-den ving  work 
were  to  come  first.  He  went  over  the  past 
winter  in  thought.  There  had  been  absolutelv 
nothing  that  any  sane  person  could  call  serious 
attention  bestowed  upon  his  assistant.  He  would 
have  been  willing  that  the  whole  village  should 
hear  every  word  he  had  ever  spoken  to  her.  He 
should  not  allow  himself  to  be  disturbed  further 
by  the  banter  of  an  ignornnt  man.  It  was  too 
preposterous  —  and  he  dismissed  the  subject,  or 
tried  to. 

There  was  another  something  that  disturbed 
him  more  than  that  just  now,  and  that  was  the 
report  of  Enid's  engagement  to  Leon.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  it  was  true  ?  If  so,  it  must 
have  been  brought  about  by  the  urgent  wishes 
of  their  elders  as  far  as  Enid  was  concerned, 
for  she  had  seemed  to  feel  nothing  but  repul- 
sion for  him.  But  then,  who  could  sound  the 
depths  of  the  heart  of  a  young  girl  ?  Leon's 
handsome  face  may  have  had  some  fascination  for 
her  which  she  had  carefully  concealed.  More- 
over, Leon  was  equal  to  anything ;  he  might 
have  professed  to  have  been  greatly  changed, 
even  to  have  become  a  Christian  after  Enid's 
own  heart,  and  in  need  of  her  sweet  guiding  to 
keep  him  in  the  narrow  path.      That  would 

203 


■<-^ 


1 


IIWl'H' 


Ml 


ir 


By    IVay  of  the    IVildcrness. 

appeal  to  her  as  nothing  else  could.  It  came 
over  Wayne  Pierson  all  at  once  that  life  looked 
dark  ahead  without  that  precious,  dreamy  hope 
he  had  hidden  in  his  heart  all  these  months. 

He  reached  out  his  hand  for  a  box  on  the 
table.  Among  his  other  treasures  was  the 
keepsake  she  had  given  him  at  parting — a 
little  withered  white  rose.  There  was  a  linger- 
ing perfume  about  it  still ;  it  reminded  him  of 
her.  He  pictured  her  again  handing  it  to  him 
that  morning,  not  coquettishly,  but  with  inno- 
cent, true  eyes.  How  dreadful  that  this  white 
dove  of  a  girl  should  be  in  the  power  of  a 
vulture!  He  would  write  and  warn  her;  but 
not  to-night,  he  must  be  calmer.  It  was  a 
night  of  tossing  and  unrest  for  the  young  man ; 
in  dreams  he  was  striving  to  hold  Enid  back 
from  the  edge  of  a  precipice  at  whose  foot  lay 
dark,  deep  waters ;  and  then  he  was  being  pur- 
sued through  tangled  growths  of  swamp  and 
wood  by  Father  Thompson,  who  brandished  a 
huge  sledge-hammer  over  his  head. 

The  young  teacher  did  not  go  to  his  duties 
that  morning  with  his  usual  zest.  All  through 
that  day  the  undercurrent  of  distracting  thought 
went  on.  It  was  most  humiliating  that  this 
man  had  all  winter  supposed  him  to  be  engaged 
in  "courting"  his  daughter!  How  should  he 
disabuse  their  minds  of  such  a  belief?  Sarah 
was  sensible ;  it  was  not  likely  that  she  had  a 
204 


fht 
lis 

red 
he 


' '  Do  yon  really  mean  it  ? ' ' 

thought  of  such  a  thing.  She  was  interested 
in  her  lessons;  besides,  she  knew  that  he  had 
neither  by  word  or  look  led  her  to  believe 
that  he  had  for  her  any  other  feeling  than  that 
of  mere  friendliness. 

Wayne  Pierson,  by  reason  of  his  peculiar 
life  trials,  was  older  than  his  years  in  some 
respects,  but  in  others  he  was  not  so  worldly 
wise  as  he  might  have  been.  Even  if  he  had 
ever  thought  himself  old  enough  to  begin,  he 
would  have  scorned  the  thought  of  a  flirtation, 
albeit  some  of  the  arts  a  flirt  employs  were 
natural  to  him.  His  eyes  would  have  widened 
and  glowed,  though,  and  sought  the  other  pair 
of  eyes  v/hen  deeply  interested,  just  the  same, 
whether  he  had  been  talking  with  his  grand- 
mother or  a  pretty  girl.  Then  that  grace  of 
manner  and  thoughtful  courtesy,  more  fascinat- 
ing to  a  woman  than  good  looks,  and  a  revela- 
tion to  this  girl,  deceived  her.  It  all  testified 
to  tender  regard  for  herself;  and  these  subtle, 
silent  factors  had  naturally  not  been  taken  into 
account  by  him. 

As  the  days  went  on  it  became  evident  to 
Wayne  that  Mrs.  Thompson  was  of  the  same 
mind  as  her  husband,  for  she  assumed  toward 
him  an  unwonted  familiarity  bordering  upon 
motherly  relations.  And  to  his  extreme  an- 
noyance, now  that  he  had  become  sensitive  on 
the  subject,  the  air  of  the  whole  community 

205 


V* 


u 


h\' 


I, : 


■1'.: 


t 


iitilJj 


■f)     ; 


■i    I 


By    IVay  of  the    JVildcrness. 

seemed  full  of  the  same  thing.  The  scholars 
gave  knowing  nods  and  nudges  to  each  other 
if  he  and  his  assistant  happened  to  exchange  a 
few  words.  And  Squire  Willard  even  went  so 
far  as  to  congratulate  him  in  away,  hailing  him 
as  he  went  by  his  office  with  :  — 

"Hello,  Professor! — heard  some  good  news 
about  you  !  See  here,  if  you  and  Sarah  Jane 
are  going  to  couple  up  soon,  why  can't  you 
come  back  here  and  keep  our  school  next 
winter  ?  Maybe  we  can  all  put  our  heads 
together  and  have  a  first-rate  academy  or 
something  of  that  sort,  bimeby.  There's 
money  enough  in  all  these  farms  to  pay  you 
something  nice,  eventooaly.  Why  not  settle 
down  here  ?     Think  of  it,  won't  you  ?  " 

Wayne  was  relieved  that  a  man  just  then 
stepped  in  and  asked  to  see  the  squire  on  busi- 
ness, so  cutting  short  the  interview.  Had  the 
young  man  not  been  so  incensed  and  mortified, 
he  would  have  enjoyed  a  hearty  laugh  as  he 
went  on  his  way  at  thought  of  himself  marry- 
ing Sarah  Jane  and  settling  down  in  Hardin  — 
the  "  upper  deestrict  "  at  that.  His  duties 
for  that  day  were  over,  and  striking  off  into  a 
little  footpath  which  led  to  the  woods,  he  won- 
dered grimly  as  he  went  along  why  it  was  that 
he  had  been  all  his  life  tramping  off  to  hide 
away  with  some  trouble.  Was  it,  had  it  always 
been,  his  own  fault  ?  But  he  could  not  stop  to 
206 


he 
7- 

les 
a 

n- 

lat 

de 

lys 

to 


^^  Do  you  really  mean  it^'^'^ 

puzzle  over  that,  there  was  tliis  hitest  perplex- 
ity harassing  him  night  and  day.  (iradually 
he  had  come  to  regard  that  half-divine  precept 
—  "put  yourself  in  his  place,"  and  he  had 
faint  glimpses  of  how  the  case  might  stand  in 
the  minds  of  Sarah's  father  and  mother.  It 
was  like  this  :  — 

All  winter  long  there  had  been  a  fire  in  the 
best  room  every  evening  —  a  thing  unheard  of 
before  —  Sarah  and  "  her  young  man  "  had  sat 
there  alone.  They  had  sung  and  studied 
French  and  read  aloud  ;  the  sceptical  parents 
were  wont  to  nod  knowingly  at  each  other 
when  these  studies  and  readings  were  men- 
tioned, a  mere  excuse  that  to  be  together  they 
decided.  Sometimes  when  the  book  proved 
intensely  interesting  they  took  no  note  of  time, 
and  the  reading  was  protracted  until  a  late 
hour.  Then  the  father,  rousing  from  his  first 
nap,  and  still  hearing  the  sound  of  voices,  was 
apt  to  remark,  "Sarah  Jane  ought  to  'a'  been 
abed  two  hours  ago  ; "  and  the  mother  would 
put  in  soothingly,  "  La,  father,  young  folks  are 
only  young  once,  do  let  them  enjoy  it."  Hie 
professor  had  also  escorted  Sarah  to  and  from 
the  singing  classes  and  debates,  and  sometimes 
to  a  sociable.  All  the  neighborhood  took  it  as 
a  thing  of  course  that  she  would  appear  with 
him  ;  her  rustic  admirers  recognized  it  too,  and 
stood  aside. 

207 


'{■^H 


,;  I 


t 


By    ff^^fy  of  the    JJ^ildcnicss, 

Now  in  the  rural  coiiiiminity  of  New  I*-ng- 
laiul,  whence  the  Thonipsons  aiul  numy  others 
of  this  Western  viihige  hatl  eniigrated,  tliis  was 
the  regular  recognized  form  of  a  genuine  court- 
ship, atul  eciuivalent  to  an  engagement  when 
persisted  in  tor  a  few  months.  When  a  young 
man  had  begun  "  keeping  company  "  with  a 
girl,  especially  if  he  had  "  ^et  up  "  with  her,  it 
would  he  accounted  most  dishonorable  to  "jilt  " 
her  after  that.  The  remembrance  of  this  fact, 
gleaned  from  a  book  of  old-time  stories,  ex- 
plained why  everybody  iiad  jumped  to  the 
same  conclusion  concerning  himself,  and  did 
not  comfort  this  much  troubled  young  man. 
Putting  manv  little  things  together,  he  could 
see  that  for  some  time  back  the  Thompsons 
had  seemed  to  regard  him  as  one  of  the  family. 
It  had  come  to  be  a  rule  for  the  mother  to  trot 
into  the  room  where  Sarah  and  he  sat  together 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  bringing 
some  little  delicacy  for  their  refreshment.  She 
would  mend  the  fire,  beam  serenely  upon  them 
a  moment,  and  vanish.  The  unsuspecting 
young  man  set  it  all  down  to  abounding  kind- 
ness of  heart,  and  took  encouragement  to  pro- 
long the  reading  after  his  conscience  had  warned 
him  that  he  ought  to  be  asleep. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Sarah,  during  that 
winter,  had  enjoyed  the  opportunity  of  her  life 
in  an  educational  way,  even  though  some  of 
208 


M 


^^  Do  you  really  mean  itP'*'* 


;her 


ting 
nd- 
»ro- 
ned 


what  she  read  was  far  beyond  her  depth.  It 
embraced  a  wide  range  :  books  of  history, 
science,  antl  metaphysics,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
fiction  by  the  best  authors.  And  the  Hstener 
had  realized  his  good  fortune  in  having  secured 
a  reader  so  gooti-natiired  and  untiring;  her 
voice  was  good  also,  and  she  was  eager  to  have 
all  faults  corrected.  The  long  winter  evenings 
had  slipped  delightfully  away,  and  Wayne  was 
grateful,  for  he  knew  that  his  already  overtaxed 
eyes  could  not  have  borne  this  extra  strain. 
He  had  occasionally  rewarded  her  by  reading 
aloud  choice  bits  from  the  poets.  A  new 
world  had  alreaciy  been  opened  to  the  girl, 
but  this  was  enchantment  to  hear  in  Wayne's 
faultless  intonation  — 

•*  Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles 

Miles  and  miles, 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half  asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,"  — 

or  the  musical  cadences  of — 

•*  The  blessed  damo/el  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  heaven  ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depths 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even." 

And  thus  it  had  turned  out  that  the  reading 
for  a  half-hour  a  day  had  come  to  be  the  busi- 

209 


I 

.  i 


»  n     I 


W.\ 


■1 


ri 


By    H^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

ness  of  the  evening  after  a  short  lesson  in 
French,  and  an  occasional  music  lesson.  He 
had  to  thank  his  own  selfish  thoughtlessness, 
he  told  himself  more  than  once,  that  he  had 
been  brought  into  such  a  dilemma.  He  had 
taught  French  to  Sarah,  so  that  his  pronuncia- 
tion should  not  grow  rusty  ;  in  fact,  it  was  all 
selfish  ;  he  had  enjoyed  posing  as  a  sort  of 
philanthropist,  wise  and  good  and  gracious,  giv- 
ing out  his  gifts  with  princely  generosity.  And 
so  he  had  gone  on  all  winter  with  not  a  thought 
of  anybody  but  himself.  Fool  !  If  only  the 
girl  herself  were  not  harmed  ;  he  should  never 
have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  but  for  the  talk 
that  had  been  started. 

The  evenings  at  home  were  necessarily 
broken  up  now  by  reason  of  frequent  rehear- 
sals of  the  whole  school,  preparatory  to  the 
closing  exercises,  and  the  teacher  contrived  to 
be  so  continually  occupied  that  he  had  no  time 
to  give  to  Sarah  except  in  thought.  The  con- 
flict within  went  steadily  on.  "  What  was  to 
be  the  end  of  all  this  ?  "  he  asked  himself. 
His  eyes  at  times  regarded  the  girl,  who  was 
the  cause  of  all  this  tumult,  with  a  new  curios- 
ity. Most  persons  would  have  called  her 
good-looking.  Somehow  during  the  winter 
she  had  lost  a  superabundance  of  flesh,  and 
the  intense  color  which  had  flamed  in  her 
cheeks  was  toned  down  to  a  becoming  pink. 
210 


Uutk. 


to 

iself. 

was 

-ios- 

her 

liter 

and 

her 

ink. 


'^  Do  you  really  mean  itP'*'' 

Her  brown  eyes  were  sincere,  though  rather 
too  wide  open,  perhaps,  and  she  walked  with  a 
free  swinging  step  which  might  be  trained  into 
grace.  No,  there  was  nothing  in  her  appear- 
ance to  terrify  him,  and  she  really  had  a  very 
good  mind  susceptible  to  high  cultivation.  But 
oh,  that  something  in  the  face  and  presence, 
that  delicacy  and  fineness,  the  spirit  illumining 
the  flesh,  it  was  not  there  !  Again  he  thought 
of  Enid  and  stifled  a  groan.  At  the  same  time 
it  smote  him  like  a  blow  that  this  other  girl 
was  thoroughly  good,  kind,  pure-hearted,  and 
unselfish.  She  had  anticipated  every  want  and 
ministered  to-  his  comfort  like  a  sister,  taking 
burdens  upon  herself  in  the  school  which  did 
not  belong  to  her  that  he  might  not  be  annoyed. 
It  was  after  weary  trampings,  sleepless  nights, 
and  many  conflicts  that  he  came  at  last  to  this 
decision  :  If  he  should  discover  that  Sarah, 
in  view  of  what  she  considered  special  atten- 
tion, had  given  her  heart  to  him,  why  then 
it  would  be  his  duty  to  pledge  himself  to  her. 
The  thought  was  terrible,  but  he  must  be 
honorable  and  true  to  his  convictions,  what- 
ever the  sacrifice.  He  had  written  an  essay 
in  college  wherein  he  had  taken  high  ground 
on  the  perfidy  of  stealing  hearts,  denouncing 
the  guilty  ones  as  worthy  of  far  greater  pun- 
ishmei-'.t  than  ordinary  thieves.  He  would 
wait,  though,  until  the  last  day  or  two  of  his 

21  I 


n  ''« 


'1 


i'T 


triiii: 


t;li^^' 


By    U^ay  of  the   JVilderness. 

stay  before  taking  this  decisive  step,  and  watch 
developments.  He  was  not  reassured  when  he 
found  that  evening  a  lovely  bunch  of  white 
violets  and  spring  beauties  in  his  room,  nor 
when  the  next  day  he  stepped  into  her  school- 
room to  make  an  inquiry,  her  face  became 
suffused  with  blushes  and  she  made  stammer- 
ing replies,  increased  by  a  loud  whisper  from 
a  precocious  little  woman  gossip  who  pro- 
claimed from  behind  her  hand  —  "He's  her 
beau,"  —  followed  by  a  giggle. 

It  was  all  over;  the  last  day  of  school  came 
and  went  with  highly  creditable  examinations, 
followed  by  a  "brilliant"  entertainment  in  the 
evening,  consisting  of  music  and  declamation 
which  covered  them  all  with  glory,  especially 
the  professor,  whom  a  throng  of  boys  gathered 
about  to  clasp  his  hand  in  loving  good-bys, 
and  beg  him  to  return  the  next  winter.  Ir  was 
not  that  young  man's  purpose  to  do  so  if  any 
other  place  opened  where  he  could  earn  his  liv- 
ing, but  he  left  it  an  open  question  ;  he  might  be 
obliged  to  accept  it. 

Wayne  had  planned  lo  take  the  midnight 
train,  and  there  was  buL-  an  hour  left.  Mother 
Thompson,  with  unfailing  kindness,  had  pre- 
pared for  him  a  generous  lunch-box  for  his 
journey,  and  when  she  presented  it,  begged  as 
a  last  favor  that  he  would  sing  her  favorite  song 
before  he  went.  The  musician,  as  he  seated 
21  2 


\\ 


''   !  1,1 


d-bys, 
t  was 
f  any 
s  liv- 
ht  be 

night 

)ther 

pre- 

his 

d  as 

Isong 

jated 


•1 


. 


(C 


Do  you  really  mean  itP^^ 


himself  at  the  organ  to  comply  with  her  request, 
was  conscious  of  a  wish  that  the  writer  of  tliose 
words  had  never  been  born.  Annoyed  beyond 
measure,  he  nevertheless  went  through  it,  sing- 
ing as  effectively  as  if  his  heart  were  torn  with 
regrets,  the  old  song,  beginning :  — 

"We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night." 

With  the  last  line  Mrs.  Thompson  left  the 
room  in  tears.  There  was  silence  for  a  little 
when  the  two  were  left  alone.  Wayne  had  felt 
that  this  last  talk  would  probably  decide  his 
course  of  action,  and  yet,  within  the  last  few 
minutes,  the  suggestion  had  come  to  him  — 
What  need  for  pledging  himself  to  her  now  in 
any  case  ?  Why  not  wait  and  arrange  to  corre- 
spond simply.''  Of  course  that  would  be,  in  the 
eyes  of  iier  friends,  still  continuing  a  tacit  en- 
gagement, but  it  would  not  seem  so  dreadful  to 
him,  and  who  could  tell  what  might  happen 
meantime  ?  The  girl  might  be  carried  captive 
by  the  next  teacher  and  forget  him  utterly. 

"  It's  dreadful  to  have  you  go  away ;  I  never 
had  such  a  good  time  in  all  my  life,"  Sarah  said 
innocently.  "  I  was  beginning  to  be  somebody 
and  know  something.  Now  I'll  just  drop  back 
and  be  Sarah  Jane  again.  I  was  getting  on  so 
well  in  music  and  French,  and  now  there'll  be 
no  more  of  that.  I'll  have  nobody  to  help  me, 
ever  again." 

213 


I  i 

'! 


nr 


kB 


i.-b:    ;  , 


1 1 


i'  I    t 


Mil  •' 
'.it  f 


:M 


) 


u 


By    IVay  of  the    IVilderness, 

The  girl  was  leaning  her  head  on  her  hand, 
her  eyes  on  Wayne's  face,  as  one  takes  a  last 
lingering  look  at  something  infinitely  precious. 
Wayne  had  a  tender  heart  for  distress  in  what- 
ever guise,  and  now  pity  sent  that  regardful 
look  into  his  eyts,  so  misleading  it  was,  as  he 
said :  — 

"  1  will  help  you.  I  will  be  your  friend 
always,  if  you  will  let  me."  He  was  going  on 
to  sav  more,  that  he  would  write  to  her  regu- 
larly, and  continue  her  I^Vench  lessons  by  cor- 
respondence. But  when  that  treacherous  voice 
of  his,  with  the  tender  note,  which  was  always 
saying  more  than  he  had  authorized  it  to  say, 
fell  upon  the  girl's  ear  in  those  words,  the  abso- 
lute radiance  that  flashed  into  her  face  was  some- 
thing wonderful  to  see.  "  Her  friend  always," 
with  that  look  and  tone,  meant  just  one  thing 
to  her. 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?"  she  asked  in  a 
tremble  of  delight.  "  I  was  afraid  you  would 
never  like  me  enough  for  that,  I  —  I  know  I'm 
not  good  enough  for  you,  but  I'll  try  and  learn." 

She  had  mistaken  his  meaning !  He  saw  it 
in  a  flash.  And  now  he  was  pledged  unless  he 
spoke  and  undeceived  her.  He  could  not  do 
it.  He  must  abide  by  his  words  as  she  had 
understood  them.  And  she  had  not  feigned 
this  to  entrap  him  ;  she  was  a  child  of  nature, 
and  true. 

214 


jl. 


XVI. 


:  do 
had 
gned 
ture, 


A  Counterfeiter''' s  State  of  Mind. 

IT  was  a  strange  wooing;  Wayne  Pierson 
indeed  was  too  young  to  realize  how 
strange  it  was.  He  smiled  into  the  face 
of  the  girl  who  questioned  him  eagerly, — 
it  was  an  acquirement  of  his  to  smile  when 
his  heart  was  heaviest,  —  and  he  took  her  hand 
and  pressed  it  reassuringly,  then  dropped  it  as 
it  came  to  him  that  he  vas  acting  more  than 
he  felt.  He  spoke  a  few  grave  words  too, 
words  of  advice  mostly,  concerning  studies, 
with  hints  of  the  years  of  hard  work  which 
lay  before  him.  Then  train-time  came.  He 
clasped  Sarah's  hand  in  good -by,  and  she 
watched  him  down  the  street  until  he  was  lost 
in  the  darkness. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Sarah  was  disap- 
pointed at  first.  Why  did  he  not  say  he  loved 
her  as  they  do  in  story  books,  and  kiss  her 
good-by  ?  However,  she  loyally  put  away  the 
feeling  of  dissatisfaction  ;  perhaps  refined  peo- 
ple like  Wayne  did  not  do  things  in  that  wav. 
She  said  the  name  over  again  softly,  thrilliiv- 

215 


V.     .1 


u 


1    1 


r    .;    ! 

|i  ■'■:  1 


By    Ji^ay  of  the    IViUerness. 

with  the  thought  that  now  she  had  a  right  to 
call  him  that,  though  with  it  crme  a  twinge  of 
regret  that  he  had  not  told  her  she  might ; 
anyway  she  should  say  it  to  herself.  And  to 
think  she  should  get  letters  from  him  !  She 
had  never  received  but  three  letters  in  her  life. 
How  often  did  people  who  were  engaged  write 
to  each  other,  she  wondered.  It  would  be  so 
great  a  pleasure  to  answer  his  letter,  for  Sarah 
prided  herself  on  spelling  and  penmanship  as 
well  as  grammar.  But  she  had  no  nice  paper ; 
she  must  send  to  Westover  for  some.  "  Let's 
see,  shall  it  be  blue  or  pink  or  green } "  She 
could  not  decide. 

And  the  other  party  to  this  queer  transac- 
tion }  He  was  not  troubled  by  any  such  triv- 
ial matters  as  he  sat  straight  up  in  a  common 
car  all  night,  to  save  the  expense  of  a  sleeper, 
being  moved  rapidly  on  toward  the  East.  He 
was  busy  at  something  else  —  not  sleeping,  but 
calling  himself  "fool"  and  other  hard  names; 
not  because  of  what  had  just  happened,  that 
was  unavoidable,  he  told  himself,  albeit  it  was 
the  result  of  a  winter  of  insane  thoughtless- 
ness. It  would  have  been  dishonorable  as 
things  turned  to  have  acted  in  any  other  way. 
He  had  seemed  to  seek  out  one  girl  and  devote 
himself  to  her;  naturally  enough  she  had  in- 
ferred that  he  had  peculiar  interest  in  her,  and 
her  heart  had  gone  out  to  him.  Duty  required 
2l6 


ansac- 
triv- 
^imon 
eper, 
He 
,  but 
mes; 
that 
was 
ess- 
e  as 
way. 
vote 
in- 
and 
ired 


^1( 


A  Counterfeiter* s   Mind. 

of  him  what  he  had  done  that  night,  and  brave 
men  did  not  shirk  duty,  however  hard. 

The  deluded  bov  did  not  seem  to  reahze  that 
duty  and  truth  go  hand  in  hand,  and  he  had 
forgotten  his  beloved  Shakespeare :  — 

'•To  thine  own  self  be  true  ; 
And  it  must  follow  as  the  night  the  day 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man." 

He  was  yet  to  learn  by  hard  lessons  that  one 
cannot  pass  counterfeits  in  the  sacred  relations 
of  love  and  marriage,  and  go  unpunished. 

Aunt  Crete  had  invited  Wayne  to  spend  the 
summer  with  her,  and  thither  he  had  gone  with 
all  speed,  as  she  wished  him  to  be  there  on  his 
birthday.  He  decided,  as  he  drew  near  the 
old  homestead  among  the  hills,  that  he  should 
not  at  present  inform  Aunt  Crete  of  any  pecul- 
iar relations  he  held  with  a  young  woman  in 
the  West;  time  enough  for  that  most  humiliat- 
ing avowal. 

The  quaint  old  house  was  open  to  the  May 
sunshine,  and  lilac  blooms  of  white  and  lavender 
mingled  their  sweet  breaths  with  apple  blossoms 
and  the  thousand  other  fragrancies  of  spring. 
It  was  a  delightful,  peaceful  spot,  embowered  in 
ancient  elms,  that  line  the  wide  streets  of  that 
ideal  village.  Aunt  Crete  welcomed  him  with 
shining  face  and  loving  words,  bestowing  kisses 
on  cheek  and  brow  with  demonstrativeness  unu- 

217 


%- 


■li 


1*1 


'     1 


h 


MM 


By    Ji^ay  of  the    IVildcrncss, 

sual  to  her.  It  was  gniteful  to  the  young  niun. 
He  was  weary  of  tossings  and  buffetings  and 
harasstnents  ;  he  felt,  ahiiost,  like  a  worn  old 
man  who  longed  to  drop  his  burdens  in  this 
peacefid  spot  and  there  rest  forever,  or  like 
a  tired  child  who  wanted  to  creep  into  his 
mother's  arms  and  be  rocked  to  sleep. 

Wayne's  feelings  were  never  on  the  surface, 
though  ;  he  assumed  a  cheerful  air  and  rushed 
about,  out  and  in,  exploring  the  old  place  anew 
with  all  the  apparent  delight  of  his  boyhood. 
He  had  never  seen  Aunt  Crete  more  happy, 
and  she  knew  why.  Not  only  had  her  dear 
boy  come  to  stay  for  months,  but  locked  in 
the  old  secretary  drawer  was  a  long  thick  en- 
velope whose  seals  looked  official  and  impor- 
tant.    To-morrow  he  would  know  all. 

And  the  morrow  dawned  in  brightness.  Aunt 
Crete  dressed  the  house  in  flowers  and  brought 
out  the  traditional  birthday  cake  with  its  twenty- 
one  candles,  and  gave  her  little  gifts  as  when  he 
was  a  boy :  a  fine  handkerchief  of  her  own 
hemstitching,  a  bright  pinball,  and  a  box  of 
her  home-made  taffy.  Tears  came  to  the  young 
man's  eyes.  Again  he  was  back  in  his  happy 
mothered  childhood. 

He  took  up  the  formidable  looking  docu- 
ment, finally,  asking,  "  What  can  this  be.  Aunt 
Crete.'*  Have  you  made  your  will  so  soon?" 
She  was  silent  while  he  opened  it,  expecting 
2l8 


\ 


t^ 


of 


A  CoNritcrfcitcr''  s   MiricL 

to  find  in  it  sonic  oi  Aunt  Crete's  dry  fun,  per- 
haps a  whole  sheet  full  of  good  advice. 

He  read  far  enough  to  understand  that  he 
held  in  his  hand  his  fortune;  then  he  looked 
up  and  gazed  at  Aunt  Crete  in  dumb  amaze- 
ment before  reading  it  again  in  silence.  Mean- 
time Aunt  Crete  slipped  out  and  left  him 
alone. 

After  a  half-hour  had  passed  she  was  a  little 
perplexed  and  disappointed  that  he  had  not 
come  out,  beside  himself  with  joy,  to  jump 
over  the  tulip  bed,  or  seize  her  and  whirl  her 
about,  which  were  some  of  his  pranks  when 
he  had  come  down  from  college  to  spend  short 
vacations.  He  took  it  altogether  too  coolly. 
Was  Wayne  putting  on  airs  and  trying  to  be 
old  and  grave  before  his  time  ? 

Whatever  it  was  that  kept  back  an  overflow 
of  spirits  on  that  eventful  day,  it  was  something 
real,  Aunt  Crete  decided  when  she  returned  to 
the  room  and  found  Wayne  sitting  where  she 
had  left  him,  his  head  bent  forward  in  deep 
thought,  his  eyes  intent  upon  a  pattern  in  the 
carpet;  he  looked  as  if  he  were  puz/ling  out  a 
problem,  she  thought,  and  not  a  pleasant  one 
at  that.  The  boy  had  grown  up  !  And  Aunt 
Crete,  with  all  her  pride  in  his  manly  beauty 
and  talent,  had  a  sore  heart  for  a  minute  as  she 
took  it  in.  It  would  have  been  sorer,  though, 
could  she  have  known  all. 

219 


* 


11 


m 


\ 


i  I 


;,'  I 


•i 


t  '•  i'  ■' 


li  ^  r  iv.4 


^    //^^  ^^    //^r    JVildcrncss.         | 

He  caught  at  her  hand  as  she  came  by,  and 
smiled  up  into  her  face.  It  was  her  boy's  look 
still,  but  graver,  sadder.  She  passed  her  hand 
caressingly  over  his  head  and  put  back  a  stray 
lock  from  his  forehead,  thinking  within  herself 
that  if  any  mother  loved  a  boy  more  than  she 
did  this  one,  she  was  sorrv  for  her. 

He  drew  her  down  into  an  easy  chair  by  his 
side,  and  began  to  ply  her  with  eager  questions. 
Among  others  he  asked,  "  Aunt  Crete,  did  you 
all  these  years  know  of  this  —  this  wonderful 
thing  that  was  coming  to  me  .''  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  didn't  1  keep  a  secret  well  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  Some  things 
might  have  been  different  if  you  had." 

"  Most  likely.  You  would  probably  have 
turned  out  as  many  another  boy  has,  a  good- 
for-nothing,  because  you  had  some  money  com- 
ing to  you.  Besides,  I  couldn't  tell  you.  I 
gave  my  word  to  your  mother  that  I  would 
not. 

"  If  I  had  known  it,"  he  said  meditatively, 
"  I  would  have  come  to  you  last  fall,  and  gone 
on  with  niy  studies  by  myself,  while  I  waited 
for  all  this  abundance.  If  I  had"  —  he  almost 
said,  "  if  I  had,  this  terrible  yoke  of  bondage 
would  not  be  about  my  neck  this  minute." 

"  Yes,"  Aunt  Crete  answered,  in  an  aggrieved 
tone,  "  if  I  had  but  known  you  were  going  to 
fly  up  and  off  like  a  parched  pea  I  should  have 
220 


A  Counterfeiter' s   MiricL 

insisted  upon  your  coming  to  nie.  I  lowevcr,  I 
consoled  myself  by  thinking  that  you  couldn't 
probably  have  a  better  discipline  tor  a  time 
than  to  teach  a  country  school." 

"  Discipline,  yes,  lifelong  discipline  it  might 
be,"  the  young  man  told  himself. 

"  But  that's  all  past,"  Aunt  Crete  said 
briskly.  "  Now  you  have  your  life  to  plan 
over  again,  I  know  you  are  just  aching  to  get 
off  by  yourself  and  think  and  think,  to  take  it 
all  in  ;  so  tramp  off  if  you  want  to  till  dinner's 
ready,  and  I'll  go  down  to  old  Mrs.  Bower's 
with  some  broth." 

Wayne  blessed  her  for  her  thoughtfulness. 
He  did  wish  to  be  alone  for  a  time,  and  gloom 
over  the  situation.  He  had  been  wretched  be- 
fore this  news  came,  but  doubly  wretched  now. 
It  was  so  tantalizing,  so  exasperating,  that  now 
when  he  was  free  from  his  enemy  and  had  be- 
come his  own  master,  when  he  held  in  his 
hand  the  means  to  go  on  with  study  to  any 
extent,  to  travel  in  foreign  lands,  what  he  had 
longed  for,  when  a  charmed  life  was  opening 
up  before  him,  it  should  be  turned  to  bitter- 
ness by  his  own  folly,  fettered  in  his  young 
manhood  by  a  chain  of  his  own  forging.  Sup- 
pose even  that  he  could  tolerate  the  thought 
of  being  bound  to  this  girl,  how  was  she  in  her 
humble  home  ever  to  be  fitted  for  that  station 
in  life  to  which  he  belonged  }    It  was  appalling. 

221 


•t 


lifi 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness, 

He  felt  degraded,  too,  in  his  own  eyes  that  she 
had  given  to  him  her  whole  heart's  devotion 
and  received  naught  in  return.  It  was  not  a 
hght  thing  to  have  won  this,  and  it  was  by  his 
own  mistakes;  he  might  have  saved  her  from 
it. 

Wayne  had  expected  to  spend  this  summer 
in  efforts  to  obtain  a  more  lucrative  position, 
but  now  there  was  no  need.  Study  was  the 
next  thing,  and  with  that  joyful  thought  the 
student  got  the  better  of  all  depressing  circum- 
stances, for  a  time,  and  he  went  off  into  making 
plans.  He  would  go  to  one  of  the  older  uni- 
versities to  be  graduated,  after  that  a  post- 
graduate course  in  Europe,  after  that  travel. 
Then  v  hat  ?  Oh,  what  ?  And  this  brought 
his  thoughts  back  to  the  hateful  present,  and 
the  remembrance  that  he  had  promised  Sarah 
to  let  her  know  of  his  safe  arrival.  He  took 
out  his  pen  and  tablet  to  begin.  What  should 
he  say,  and  how  ?  Engaged  but  three  days, 
and  obliged  to  ponder  in  j^erplexitv  over  what 
he  should  say  in  his  first  letter.  He  saw  the 
absurdity  of  the  situation,  and  half  smiled  m 
scorn  of  himself  He  sat  long  on  the  log,  pen 
in  hand,  leaning  against  the  tree,  but  he  did  not 
write  the  letter  ;  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  blue 
sky  and  dreamy  white  clouds  he  had  gone  off 
into  dreams  himself;  there  was  no  girl  in  the 
dreams,  they  were  about  books.  Oh,  the 
222 


,i^  1; 


A  Counterfeiter' s  Mind. 

treasures  of  hooks  he  would  have  !  He  revelled 
in  the  thought  of  his  riches,  aiid  made  out  a 
choice  list  of  rare  books  at  once. 

A  day  or  two  elapsed  before  he  set  himself 
in  earnest  to  write  to  Sarah.  It  was  a  difficult 
task.  Part  of  the  epistle  might  have  been 
copied  from  "  The  Polite  Letter-Writer,"  so 
stilted  and  devoid  of  heart  interest  was  it. 
Much  of  it  had  to  do  with  French  verbs.  He 
was  more  at  home  there,  and  some  of  the  sen- 
tences were  written  in  French  for  that  poor 
creature  to  puzzle  out  by  the  aid  k^^  a  diction- 
ary. At  the  close  there  was  sc'ne  quite  plain 
F.nglish,  however.  He  wrote  that,  having  had 
time  for  reflection,  it  had  occurred  to  him  that 
he  should  have  been  more  explicit  about  a 
matter  at  which  he  had  merely  hinted.  Real- 
izing that  it  would  be  years,  with  his  long 
cherished  plans  for  a  thorough  education,  be- 
fore he  could  marry  —  the  boy  writhed  under 
using  that  word,  but  there  was  no  other — he 
felt  the  importance  of  impressing  upon  her, 
with  utmost  frankness,  that  the  waititig  time 
would  be  long,  and  much  of  it  spent  in  a 
foreign  land.  If  she  felt  that  so  protracted 
an  engagement  was  undesirable,  he  would  not 
hold  her  to  it ;  she  was  free  when  she  chose  to 
say  the  word.  He  did  not  feel  it  right  to  con- 
tinue it  unless  she  clearlv  understood  it  was  ff  r 
tedious  years.      Perhaps  it  was  all  wrong  for 

223 


ri 


m 


By    Pf^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

her  to  sacrifice  her  youth  in  this  way.  If 
Wayne  had  a  secret  hope  that  the  simple- 
minded  girl  and  her  friends  might  become 
awed  at  the  prospect  of  great  learning  and 
high  position,  as  well  as  dismayed  in  view  of 
an  apparently  interminable  engagement,  and 
shrink  therefrom,  he  did  not  tell  it  to  his 
inner  self 

Sarah  Thompson  knew  that  she  could  not 
expect  to  receive  a  letter  under  two  or  three 
days,  at  least ;  nevertheless  she  be  :...i  to  look 
for  it  the  second  day  after  Wayne's  departure. 
It  was  the  first  thought  in  the  morning  and 
the  last  at  night.  As  the  week  dragged  by, 
and  it  had  not  yet  come,  the  hitherto  strong- 
nerved,  cheerful  girl  began  to  be  depressed 
and  nervous,  seized  with  a  fit  of  trembling 
when  mail-time  came,  and  dropping  every- 
thing to  hurry  off  to  the  post-office. 

It  came  at  last,  and  she  fled  to  her  own 
room  to  read  it,  holding  it  a  few  second  .  un- 
opened, and  gazing  at  her  own  name  in  ihat 
derr  handwriting.  There  was  not  much  m'  a 
to  give  her  comfort.  But  the  fact  that  he  had 
written  to  her  at  all,  that  she  was  the  only  one 
who  had  received  word  from  hiin,  that  he 
called  her  "  dear  friend  "  at  the  beginning  and 
signed  himself  "  your  friend  "  at  the  close,  that 
was  joy  enough  for  now.  How  could  he 
think  she  would  ever  tire  of  waiting  for  him  .^ 
224 


If 


im 


A  Counterfeiter' s  Mind. 

That  showed  how  honest  and  kind  he  was, 
though,  to  tell  her  the  exact  truth  at  the  start. 
A  more  sensitive  nature  would,  of  course,  have 
read  between  the  lines,  and  taken  offence  at 
the  mere  suggestion  of  considering  herself  free. 
But  this  girl  had  an  idol,  and  he  was  infallible 
in  her  eyes. 

When  she  read  parts  of  her  letter  aloud  to 
her  flither  and  mother  that  night,  it  was  not 
quite  so  satisfactory  to  them. 

"  It's  queer  for  a  love-letter,  ain't  it  ?  " 
Mother  Thompson  said  to  her  husband,  after 
Sarah  had  gone  to  her  room  ;  "  but  then,  most 
likely  she  didn't  want  to  read  the  love  part 
out.  He's  a-goin'  to  be  a  great  scholar,  though. 
Goin'  to  Europe!  I  want  to  know!"  she  mused 
on,  more  to  herself  than  to  her  husband  ! 
"  My  !  But  Sarah  Jane  '11  be  somebody  great 
when  she  gets  him." 

Father  Thompson  had  been  meditatively 
rubbing  his  stubbly  chin  while  he  gazed  into 
the  fire  /vith  something  like  a  frown  on  his 
broad  face,  and  he  sighed  now,  ending  in  an 
audible  Huh!  then  answered  almost  bitterly: 
"  Maybe;  ef  she  ain't  most  a  hundred  year  old 
time  he  gets  good  ready.  I  tell  ye,  Mariar,  I 
don't  mor'n  half  like  this  business.  Courtin' 
a  girl  ten  or  twelve  year;  it  mostways  ends  in 
smoke,  then  where  is  she?  Been  a-mopin' 
an'  a-pinin'  an'  a-losin'  her  good  looks.     Sho! 

225 


By    IVay  of  the    Wilderness. 


i!    1     I 


III:! 


I  wish  he'd  never  laid  eves  on  her.  He  scart 
away  Sam  Scott.  An'  I  most  wish  she  hadn't 
got  the  idee  of  so  much  learnin'  into  her  head, 
an*  had  a  married  Sam  an'  settled  down  nigh 
us.  Whv,  Sam's  got  the  best  farm  on  all  these 
prairies,  an'  he's  a  likely  fellow  too." 

"  Now,  father,"  Mother  Thompson  said,  as 
she  rolled  up  her  knitting-work  for  the  night, 
"  you've  got  to  let  young  folks  steer  their  own 
boat.  Providence  '11  manage  what  you  can't,  and 
we  needn't  worry  anything  about  it.  But  for 
pity's  sake,  Isaiah,  don't  let  out  anything  of  this 
to  Sarah  Jane  ;  it'll  just  about  kill  her  if  you  do." 

It  was  a  perfect  morning  with  summer  airs, 
and  Wayne  lounged  in  a  hammock  under  a 
big  tree,  by  turns  dipping  into  the  pages  of 
a  book  and  pausing  to  take  in  the  delights 
of  flitting  birds  and  scent  of  apple  blossoms. 
Aunt  Crete  appeared  in  the  doorway  presently 
with  a  knife  and  a  pan,  asking :  "  Wayne,  are 
you  equal  to  cutting  some  asparagus  for  dinner? 
You  remember  where  the  old  bed  is  down  in 
the  garden,  don't  you  ?  " 

Next  to  Aunt  Crete's  house  stood  another 
large  old-fashioned  mansion,  half  hidden  by 
trees  with  spacious  grounds,  and  old-time  gar- 
den at  the  back.  Wayne,  going  on  his  errand, 
stopped  by  the  fence  between  the  two  gardens 
to  admire  the  wealth  of  bloom  on  the  other 
226 


er  a 
of 

hts 

Dms. 

ntlv 

are 

er? 

in 


A  Counterfeiter' s  Mind. 

side,  —  great  beds  of  tulips  and  daffodils  glowing 
in  morning  freshness.  To  his  surprise  some- 
body who  seemed  a  part  of  the  spring  morning, 
in  a  gown  of  sprigged  cambric  and  a  little 
white  ruffled  sunbonnet,  lifted  herself  up  from 
over  the  flowers  she  was  cutting.  Face  to  face 
they  came  —  Enid  Wilmer  and  Wayne  Pier- 
son,  each  pronouncing  the  other's  name  in  the 
same  breath  and  in  unfeigned  delight.  Wayne 
was  the  first  to  find  his  speech.  "  Where  did 
you  come  from,  and  how  in  the  name  of  all 
that's  wonderful  did  you  find  this  out-of-the- 
wav  place  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  came  from  home  only  last  night.  Aunt 
Serena  lives  here,  and  mother  and  1  have  come 
to  spend  the  summer.  The  doctor  thinks  the 
air  of  these  Berkshire  hills  is  just  what  she  needs. 
There,  I  accounted  for  myself  all  in  one  breath  ; 
now  may  I  ask  you  the  same  questions?  " 

"  Oh,  ves  ;  I  have  come  to  spend  the  summer 
too,  and  Aunt  Crete  lives  here."  Then  their 
gay  laughter  floated  out  over  those  old  gardens 
that  had  not  echoed  to  the  sound  of  young 
voices  for  years,  and  Knid  exclaimed,  "  How 
strange!   how  \'ery  nice!" 

There  followed  a  talk  over  that  garden  fence, 
so  long  continued  that  Aunt  Crete  was  obliged  to 
come  in  search  of  her  nephew  and  her  asparagus. 

The  young  man  had  learned  o!ie  thing  by 
that  talk  —  to  his  comfort  or  discomfort.       In 

227 


*1  ' 


y.i 


1 


jfii 


ill  h 


(   t 

1  . 


^    ^^^^  ^  //^^    JVilderness. 

the  inquiries  Enid  had  made  concerning  his 
father's  family,  it  was  evident  by  her  manner 
of  speaking  of  Leon,  that  the  report  he  had 
heard  of  the  two  was  utterly  false.  It  had 
probably  been  fabricated  by  that  fellow,  and 
circulated  through  the  college  that  it  might 
reach  his  ears. 

But  for  this  hateful  rumor,  he  told  himself 
as  he  came  back  to  the  hammock,  perhaps  he 
might  not  have  been  bound  by  any  promises ; 
for  he  began  to  realize  that  it  had  plunged  him 
into  a  state  of  despairing  recklessness  that 
probably  had  much  to  do  with  his  hasty  deci- 
sion to  sacrifice  himself  to  a  sense  o{  duty. 
Was  it  duty  after  all  ?  Why  had  he  not  waited 
and  counselled  with  somebody  older  and  wiser  ? 
He  had  not  even  the  settled  conviction  that  he 
was  suffering  for  conscience'  sake,  since  these 
disturbing  thoughts  had  gained  entrance. 

He  could  not  be  wholly  wretched  now,  though, 
that  he  had  seen  that  lovely  face  far  back  in  the 
little  sunbonnet.  He  recalled  her  joy  at  meet- 
ing him,  and  dwelt  with  delight  upon  her  every 
word.  From  this  pleasant  dreaming  he  was 
awakened  by  Aunt  Crete  calling  :  — 

"A  letter  for  you,  Wayne;"  and  she  gave 
him  a  quizzical  look  as  she  handed  it  out  —  a 
little  fat,  pink  letter. 

"  Horrors  !  Pink  !  "  and  the  young  man 
flushed  as  he  recognized  Sarah's  handwriting, 
228 


• 


XVII. 

Educating  a  Conscience. 

THAT  "pink  letter"  which  was  such 
a  source  of  mortification  to  Wayne 
was  not  by  any  means  a  letter  to  be 
ashamed  of.  Sarah  Thompson,  by 
reason  of  the  Hmitations  of  her  education, 
might  not  know  just  the  proper  color  of  paper 
to  use  in  polite  correspondence,  but  she  knew 
how  to  write  a  genial,  newsy  letter,  expressed  in 
such  a  way  that  the  reader  might  almost  im- 
agine himself  present  at  the  scenes  described. 
Given  the  fact  that  Wayne  Pierson  had  been 
undeniably  interested  in  many  of  his  late  pupils 
and  had  done  his  best  for  the  little  Western 
town  where  he  had  spent  his  winter,  and  it  will 
be  readily  understood  that  he  might  be  inter- 
ested in  a  well-written  letter  from  that  place. 
If  he  could  have  divested  himself  of  all  thought 
of  personality  in  connection  with  it,  he  would 
have  heartily  enjoyed  Sarah's  letter.  He  imag- 
ined himself  going  down  to  Aunt  Crete  with 
certain  paragraphs  in  it  that  described  the  last 
"  sewing  society,"  and  gave  a  lively  and  effective 

229 


ml 


V     <     1: 

i 

1 

1 

1 
i 

1 1'H 

1 

I  fi  1  :  ■  I 


By    IVay  of  the    U^ilderness. 

picture  of  Western  life  as  he  had  been  living 
it.  If  when  Aunt  Crete  said,  "  Who  writes 
the  letter  ? "  he  could  reply  unconcernedly, 
"  Oh,  one  of  my  pupils  who  is  really  a  very 
promising  scholar,"  he  would  go  to  her  at  once. 
Less  than  two  weeks  ago  he  could  have  made 
some  such  reply  ;  now,  he  was  sure  that  the 
telltale  blood  would  flow  into  his  face,  and 
that  his  aunt's  keen  eyes  w^ould  ferret  out  his 
ugly  secret ;  for  that  it  was  ugly,  every  added 
day  of  Enid  Wilmer's  society  assured  him. 

No,  there  was  no  enjoyment  to  be  had  from 
Sarah's  letter.  He  put  it  from  him  in  pain 
and  disgust.  However,  in  due  course  of  time 
it  was  followed  by  others,  not  all  of  them 
pink  ;  some  were  of  a  pale  green,  others  had  a 
delicate  tint  called  "  azure  "  by  the  stationer  at 
Westover ;  it  had  especially  charmed  Sarah, 
and  she  used  it  somewhat  liberally.  Yet  there 
came  a  time,  and  only  that  subtle  instinct  which 
seemed  to  be  at  work  moulding  her  life  could 
have  told  why  it  came,  when  Sarah  used  the 
pink  and  green  and  azure  paper  for  her  every- 
day friends,  and  sent  only  plain  white  to  Wayne. 
He  had  not  hinted  at  this ;  instinctively  he 
shrank  from  tutelage  of  the  sort,  his  face  burn- 
ing with  shame  over  the  idea  that  it  should  be 
necessary.  But  the  white  sheet  and  the  white 
envelope  that  went  to  her  with  careful  precision 
every  two  weeks  told  their  story,  it  may  be. 
230 


Educating  a   Conscience. 


Yes,  he  wrote  to  her  with  painstaking  exact- 
ness, sending  his  letter  every  other  Monday 
morning.  If  he  had  failed  in  this,  his  curiously 
tutored  conscience  would  have  tortured  him. 
For  after  carefully  going  once  more  over  the 
weary  ground  he  had  assured  himself  that  there 
was  nothing  for  him  but  to  abide  by  his  pledged 
word.  Others  had  been  martyrs  to  principle 
before  now,  why  not  he  }. 

Yet  it  must  be  owned  that  he  was  a  very 
cheerful  and  comfortable  martyr.  Having  re- 
solved upon  doing  his  duty  at  whatever  cost, 
why  should  he  not  have  a  little  cheer  on  the 
way  \  It  would  be  years  before  he  could  think 
of  settling  down  to  actual  life ;  years  of  study 
were  before  him,  but  he  had  surelv  earned  a 
short  vacation,  and  for  this  brief  summer  he 
would  forget  that  he  was  other  than  a  boy  on 
a  visit  to  his  aunt,  and  that  there  was  a  girl  on 
a  visit  to  her  aunt  who  would  naturally  look 
to  him  for  friendly  companionship.  Could 
anything  be  more  natural  and  innocent.^  He 
did  not  plan  out  the  summer  and  look  at  it 
steadily,  he  merely  let  it  float  dreamily  through 
his  brain,  contenting  his  conscience  with  the 
stern  orders  to  Fancy  never  to  take  him  down 
the  lane  marked,  "It  might  have  been."  In 
other  words  he  drifted,  all  that  summer,  often 
calling  a  halt,  it  is  true;  as  often,  indeed,  as 
the  fortnightly  letter  was  written,  and  making 

231 


^e-. 


III 


rr 


I 

} : 


^M 


1} 


II 


li:^ 


V: 


1       "  i 


1   ! 


I 


I  f 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

certain  stern  resolutions,  forgotten  as  soon  as 
he  heard  Enid's  voice  in  the  garden  next  door. 
For  the  most  part  he  was  content  to  drift,  and 
if  he  had  been  so  ill  taught  as  not  to  know 
that  drifting  always  led  down-stream,  who  shall 
be  blamed  ? 

Those  many  colored  letters  that  came  so 
regularly,  tried  him  much  at  first,  until  he  hit 
upon  this  plan,  without  letting  himself  know 
that  it  was  a  plan.  He  talked  much  with 
Aunt  Crete  and  with  Enid  about  his  pupils. 
He  told  them  of  "  Beet,"  and  of  one,  John 
Loomis,  who  had  interested  him,  and  of  Ruby 
Stevens,  with  her  unfortunately  good  voice, 
since  it  was  not  better,  and  of  little  Nellie 
Parsons,  with  her  dangerously  pretty  face  and 
her  innocence  of  danger.  He  corresponded 
with  some  of  them,  he  said,  and  should,  for  a 
time,  to  try  to  keep  a  hold  upon  them  ;  at 
least,  until  some  teacher  came  who  could  take 
up  the  work  where  he  left  it.  He  did  not 
mention  Sarah,  and  he  said  nothing  about  the 
pink  and  blue  letters.  Could  he  help  it  if 
Aunt  Crete  believed  that  she  had  received 
their  explanation  ?  And  adoring  her  boy  as 
she  did,  was  it  not  natural  for  her  to  tell  it  all 
over  to  Enid  and  dilate  a  little  upon  the  unusua'. 
quality  of  helpfulness  and  protectiveness  for 
those  "youngsters  out  West,"  and  he  so  young 
himself?  As  for  those  fortnightly  letters,  Wayne 
232 


Nellie 

:e  and 

nded 

for  a 

n  ;    at 

take 

not 

t  the 

it   if 

eived 


usual. 
IS   for 


Educating  a   Conscience. 

posted  theni  sometimes  at  the  village  and  oftener 
at  the  town  office  six  miles  away.  When  he 
went  for  his  morning  gallop  it  was  as  easy  to 
go  in  that  direction  as  any  other,  and  he  did 
not  allow  any  impertinent  questions  from  his 
conscience  as  to  why  he  took  the  trouble  to 
carry  his  letters  there  to  post.  He  was  doing 
right,  he  told  it  coldly,  at  a  great  sacrifice  of 
self,  and  that  was  enough. 

His  home  relations  during  the  summer  were 
peculiar.  He  went  dutifully  home  as  soon  as 
he  had  fully  established  himself  at  Aunt  Crete's, 
and  meant  to  be  magnanimous  and  forget  all 
the  pain  that  his  father  had  given  him  ;  but  he 
began  wrong.  His  father  had  longed  with  aii 
almost  pitiful  eagerness  for  the  home-c  filing 
of  his  boy ;  he  had  meant  to  put  his  arms 
about  him  in  the  first  moment  of  privacy, 
as  he  used  to  do  when  Wayne  was  thirteen, 
and  to  say,  "  Wayne,  my  boy,  we  haven't  un- 
derstood each  other  very  well  of  late,  but  your 
father  loves  you  with  all  his  heart."  But  there 
had  been  no  privacy  ;  they  had  met  in  the  pres- 
ence of  company,  and  Wayne  had  risen  with 
an  ease  that  was  almost  indifference  —  at  least 
so  the  father  thought  —  to  take  his  hand  for 
a  moment,  and  say,  "  I  hope  you  are  quite 
well }  "  and  then  to  continue  at  once  the  con- 
versation that  the  father's  entrance  had  inter- 
rupted.    Nor  even  when  they  were  alone  did 


By    IVay  of  the    IVihkniess, 

the  son  succeed  in  making  himself  understood. 
I'hroughout  the  winter  he  had  been  haunted 
with  that  fear  which  had  taken  possession  of 
him  that  his  father  was  suffering  from  losses,  or 
heavy  expenditures.  He  knew  that  his  was 
an  expensive  household,  and  could  well  believe 
that  Leon  Hamilton  had  not  improved  in  the 
matter  of  spending  money.  Almost  his  first 
thought,  after  recovering  from  the  astonish- 
ment into  which  the  announcement  of  his  own 
fortune  had  thrown  him,  had  been  that  now 
he  should  be  able  to  help  his  father.  He  had 
planned  a  dozen  ways  of  offering  that  help, 
and  then,  without  plan,  had  hit  ton  the  worst 
way  that  could  have  been  foun^ 

"  Father,"  he  had  said,  the  moment  they 
were  alone  together,  "  you  know  of  my  rare 
good  fortune,  of  course  ?  you  have  known  it 
all  the  while.  My  chief  pleasure  in  it  is  that 
now  I  can  repay  to  you  all  the  lavish  expendi- 
ture of  the  years.  Can  you  give  me  any  idea, 
do  you  suppose,  what  the  amount  should  be?" 

He  had  smiled  as  he  spoke  the  words,  and 
had  meant  to  express  by  them  the  utter  folly 
of  trying  to  repay  with  mere  money  such  care 
as  had  been  his.  He  thought  his  father  would 
understand  that  he  pretended  to  throw  a  thin 
veil  of  business  over  the  transaction,  so  as  to 
cover  the  humiliation  of  a  father,  still  in  the 
prime  of  life,  having  to  receive  at  the  hands  of 

234 


Educating  a   Conscience. 

a  son.  If,  instead  of  this,  he  had  only  said  : 
"  Oh,  father,  are  you  having  money  troubles  ? 
I  have  been  afraid  of  it,  and  have  lain  awake 
nights  wondering  how  I  could  help  v(ju  ;  now 
it  is  such  a  joy  to  me  to  think  that  1  can  ! 
How  much  do  you  need,  father,  to  set  every- 
thing straight?"  But  he  said  nothing  of  the 
kind  ;  and  no  one  could  have  misunderstood  his 
meaning  more  thoroughly  than  did  that  father. 
So  the  boy,  his  boy,  had  come  home  still  nurs- 
ing petty  anger  in  his  heart,  and  had  planned 
the  mean  revenge  of  offering  to  pay  him  for  his 
bringing  up  !  Well,  if  that  was  his  spirit,  the 
least  said  between  them  the  better.  He  had 
smiled  in  return,  a  smile  so  cold  that  it  chilled 
Wayne's  heart,  as  he  said  with  that  touch  of 
irony  that  he  knew  well  how  to  use  :  — 

"  I  am  not  mathematician  enough  to  com- 
pute such  a  sum  as  that,  and  do  not  care  to 
undertake  it.  The  fewer  words  we  have  about 
it  the  better  for  us  both."  And  then  he  had 
turned  abruptly  and  gone  into  the  inner  room 
and  closed  the  door.  "  He  is  utterly  set  against 
me  !  "  groaned  Wayne,  inwardly  ;  "  he  will  not 
even  let  me  help  him  !  " 

As  for  Mrs.  Pierson,  she  tried  to  appear  at 
her  best.  Her  son  Leon  was  away  from  home, 
and  was  at  present  well  up  in  his  stepfather's 
favor,  and  Wayne  was  a  fine-looking  young 
man   with   a   large   fortune   in   his    own    right, 


m 


m 


I  lit 
III ' 


■'  i 


i  ;  s 


^    ff^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

needing  not  a  penn)  of  his  father's  money  ; 
why  should  she  not  patronize  him?  She  did  so 
to  the  best  of  her  abiHties,  talking  often  of  him 
to  his  father,  telling  how  Wayne  had  improved, 
had  ceased  to  be  a  boy,  and  lost  all  of  his  "sul- 
len" ways,  and  was  really  delightful  in  con- 
versation. The  sore-hearted  father  heard  it 
all  in  silence,  and  grew  more  and  more  disap- 
pointed. If  he  had  been  told  that  Wayne  was 
silent  and  miserable,  it  would  have  comforted 
him  a  little,  for  then  he  could  have  told  him- 
self that  the  boy  was  troubled  about  something, 
and  was  trying  to  put  a  brave  face  on  it ;  as  it 
was,  he  could  only  feel  that  his  son  had  nursed 
his  boyish  jealousies  until  he  had  become  ut- 
terly estranged  from  his  own  father.  And  the 
folly  of  this  chafed  him  so  that  he  grew  colder 
and  haughtier  every  hour. 

Wayne  made  his  visit  at  home  very  brief, 
and  came  back  to  Aunt  Crete  more  thoroughly 
embittered  against  his  stepmother  and  step- 
brother than  before.  His  version  of  it  was 
that  they  had  succeeded  beyond  their  fondest 
hopes ;  they  had  robbed  him  of  his  father. 

In  this  way  the  summer  passed.  Wayne 
by  no  means  gave  all  his  time  to  Enid,  but 
perfected  his  plans  for  the  autumn  with  such 
success  that  October  found  him  well  established 
in  one  of  the  most  time-honored  institutions 
of  learning  that  this  new  land  boasts.  Here 
236 


was 
idest 


Educating  a   Conscience. 

he  set  himself  to  work  with  such  energy  and 
perseverance  that  the  college  honors  which  he 
had  determined  regretfully  to  forego  when  he 
resolved  upon  choosing  a  new  college  for  his 
senior  year,  began  to  pour  upon  him.  Passing 
all  the  rules  of  precedent,  he  was  unanimously 
chosen  as  the  representative  of  the  class  at 
commencement ;  and  in  various  other  ways 
did  he  distinguish  himself  as  the  hero  of  the 
day.  Aunt  Crete  beamed  upon  him  from  the 
choicest  seat  that  the  great  opera  house  af- 
forded, and  believed  him  to  be  the  greatest 
man  in  the  world.  His  father  had  received 
a  formal  invitation  to  be  present,  and  had  for- 
mally answered  that  a  court  engagement  of 
importance  would  deprive   him   of  the   privi- 

There  was  a  girl  toiling  away  in  a  little 
Western  town  who  ..ould  have  given  her  year's 
earnings  for  the  privilege.  She  hinted  some- 
thing of  the  kind  to  Wayne,  and  he  promptly 
made  her  realize  the  utter  impossibility  of  such 
a  proceeding.  Sarah  Thompson  was  given  to 
understand  that  young  ladies  of  culture  did 
not  take  long  journeys  for  the  sake  of  visiting 
young  men.  Oh,  he  did  not  put  it  in  so  bald 
a  manner,  but  Sarah  was  quick  at  receiving 
hints,  and  had  blushed  painfully,  to  the  very 
roots  of  her  black  hair,  over  the  suggestion 
that  his  reply  contained.      Yet   beside    Aunt 

237 


'iil 
I*" 


'WmM 

vr^', 

1 

ft;!y  ' 

! 
1 

!'■' 

!!  \ 

/ 

w 


:  J 


Sy    IV^ay  of  the    JViUerness. 


it  W. 


\i 


! ! 


M 


!   I 


I 
I  • 


■ 


I 
i 


Crete  sat  Enid  Wilmer,  fair  and  sweet,  and 
happy  in  the  honors  heaped  upon  her  friend. 
She  had  made  almost  as  long  a  journey  as 
Sarah  would  have  had  to  take,  for  the  plersure 
of  hearing  that  one  oration  ;  but  then,  Enid 
Wilmer  had  an  aunt  to  visit — that  must  be 
taken  into  consideration. 

Within  a  week  after  his  graduation  Wayne 
Pierson  went  abroad.  He  had  not  meant  to 
go  so  soon.  His  plan  had  been  to  go  home 
for  a  month's  visit,  and  he  had  told  himself 
determinated  that  he  would  get  acquainted 
with  his  father  over  again,  and  insist  upon 
breaking  down  that  wall  of  cold  reserve. 
He  also  told  himself,  with  less  determination, 
that  he  must  go  to  Hardin,  he  supposed.  He 
sighed  heavily  whenever  he  thought  of  this, 
and  forebore  to  make  any  definite  plans  about 
the  going,  and  put  the  thought  of  it  from  him 
as  much  as  possible.  It  was  enough  that, 
being  a  man  of  honor,  he  meant  to  go,  of 
course,  sometime. 

In  point  of  fact  he  did  none  of  the  things 
thus  planned.  A  rare  opportunity  for  going 
abroad  with  choice  company  and  exceptional 
advantages  for  sight-seeing  being  offered,  this 
young  man  of  impulse  decided  in  a  single 
night  that  he  would  avail   himself  of  it. 

By  October,again,  he  was  established  in  Berlin 
for  a  graduate  course,  and  was  writing  to  Aunt 

238 


him 
that, 
f 


o 


lings 
^oing 
ional 


mi 


his 
fie 


in 


»i«- 


Educating  a   Conscience. 

Crete  frequently,  to  his  father  every  three  or 
four  or  six  weeks,  and  to  Sarah,  with  the  regu- 
larity of  the  sun,  once  a  month  !  He  had 
planned  this  with  care  ;  had  explained  to 
that  patient  young  woman  that  his  studies 
were  very  heavy,  as  indeed  they  were,  and 
that  he  had  extremely  little  time  to  spend  in 
correspondence ;  a  letter  a  month  was  all  he 
could  conscientiously  give  to  her.  He  nursed 
his  conscience  very  carefully  in  those  days,  to 
make  sure  that  it  should  sustain  him  in  all 
that  he  did.  He  had  need  to  later,  as  temp- 
tation spread  itself  out  alluringly  before  him. 
It  chanced  that  Mrs.  Wilmer  was  advised  to 
go  abroad  again,  and  this  time  she  took  Knid 
with  her.  As  she  gained  in  strength,  she  nat- 
urally desired  to  give  Enid  all  the  benefit  of 
travel  that  she  could,  and  in  course  of  time 
their  route  led  them  to  the  very  town  and 
street  where  Wayne  was  boarding.  Not  with- 
out plans  to  that  effect.  The  correspondence 
begun  so  long  ago  between  Enid  and  Wayne 
had  never  been  entirely  dropped.  Wayne 
wrote  only  occasionally,  his  conscience  keeping 
him  well  up  on  the  remembrance  that  he  had 
not  time  for  letter-writing;  and  Enid,  whether 
by  accident  or  design,  never  replied  to  his  let- 
ters any  more  promptly  than  he  had  to  hers, 
yet  they  kept  in  touch  with  each  other  in  this 
way;  and  their  relations  were  of  such  a  frank 

239 


■%. 


fli* 


:  1     . 


il- 


If  <, 


!  : 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

and  friendly  character  that  before  Mr.  Wilmer 
started  for  home,  after  establishing  his  wife  and 
daughter  comfortably  for  a  six  weeks'  stay, 
he  called  upon  Wayne,  and  told  him  that  any 
little  oversight  he  was  able,  without  too  much 
trouble,  to  keep  on  the  ladies,  would  be  duly 
appreciated.  After  that,  what  could  Wayne 
do  but  call  frequently  and  send  cards  of  invi- 
tation or  admission,  as  they  came  in  his  way, 
and  act  a3  escort  to  points  of  interest?  In 
short,  he  kept  an  "  oversight."  Who  could 
have  done  less  ?  Let  it  not,  for  a  moment, 
be  imagined  that  Wayne  Pierson  was,  in  any 
sense  of  the  word,  doing  what  is  called  "  flirt- 
ing "  with  Enid  Wilmer.  His  regard  for  her 
was  too  painfully  sincere  to  have  tempted  him 
in  that  direction.  His  attentions  to  her,  dur- 
ing that  winter  abroad,  were  such  as  any  gen- 
tleman might  have  offered,  could  hardly  have 
helped  offering,  indeed,  under  the  circum- 
stances ;  but  they  helped  to  add  painful  weight 
to  the  chains  in  which  he  had  entangled  him- 
self 

It  was  not  very  much  better  after  Enid  went 
home.  In  some  respects  it  was  worse.  With 
her  and  her  mother  alone  in  a  foreign  land,  it 
was  easy  to  assure  himself  that  he  must,  at 
whatever  cost  to  his  future  peace,  do  for  them 
whatever  would  add  to  their  comfort ;  but  it 
was  difficult  for  that  much-burdened  conscience 
240 


.II; 


lith 

at 
;m 

it 
ice 


Educating  a   Conscience. 

of  his  to  find  excuses  for  the  letters  that  still 
occasionally  went  to  her  after  she  was  fairly 
settled  again  among  her  home  friends.  There 
was  another  who  was  more  or  less  troubled  by 
these  same  letters,  and  that  was  Mrs.  Wilmer. 
Her  daughter  seemed  to  be  entirely  undis- 
turbed, and,  up  to  a  certain  point  at  least,  en- 
tirely frank.  She  carried  the  letters  promptly 
to  her  mother  as  soon  as  they  were  read,  and 
they  were  still  such  as  might  have  been  read 
aloud  anywhere,  and  would  have  interested. 
Wayne  knew  how  to  write  fascinating  letters 
from  abroad,  —  though  in  the  Thompson  home 
it  might  not  have  been  suspected,  —  but  Mrs. 
Wilmer,  mother-like,  was  troubled.  Since  this 
young  man  cared  to  continue  writing  to  her 
daughter,  until  the  years  were  past  in  which 
they  could  both  be  looked  upon  as  children, 
and  since  she  cared  enough  for  his  letters  to 
reply,  and  chose  not  to  do  as  much  for  other 
young  men  who  Would  have  been  glad  to  corre- 
spond with  her,  why  did  not  they  both  —  Yet 
here  she  had  to  stop.  Up  to  a  certain  point, 
as  has  been  said,  Enid  was  frank  and  communi- 
cative. She  was  gently  dignified  whenever  the 
mother  sought  to  understand  the  peculiar  friend- 
ship that  seemed  to  exist  between  herself  and 
Wayne  Pierson. 


241 


i 


I 


i 


N 


m 


XVIII. 

Conscience   Salve. 


I-  ,1 


ir 


MEANTIME  In  her  far-away  Western 
home,  the  girl,  Sarah,  received  her 
letters,  and  answered  them,  and 
I'ved  her  life.  Those  two  items  are 
put  first  because,  in  a  sense,  they  were  her 
life.  Had  the  monthly  mail  failed  her  it  is 
not  known  what  Sarah  Thompson  would  have 
done ;  but  it  did  not  fail,  and,  having  put  as 
absolute  trust  in  the  writer  of  those  letters  as 
she  did  in  the  daily  sunrise,  she  was  not  un- 
happy. She  had  argued  the  question  out  with 
her  heart,  and  accepted,  once  for  all,  the  fact 
that  Wavne  Pierson  was  not  like  other  men, 
Vv'as  far  too  high  above  them  to  be  judged  by 
their  rules.  Her  letters,  that  at  first  had  been 
so  unlike  her  dream  of  what  such  a  correspond- 
ence would  be  as  to  almost  make  her  heartsick, 
had  gradually  grown  to  be  models.  After  a 
little  she  even  ceased  to  mourn  over  the  utter 
absence  of  all  terms  of  endearment.  Some- 
where in  her  reading  she  came  across  the  story 
of  the  famous  college  president  whose  words 
were  so  weighty  that  students  hung  upon  them, 
242 


Conscience  Salve. 


tern 
her 

and 

;  are 
her 

it   is 

have 

at  as 

^•s  as 
un- 

with 
fact 
len, 
by 

Ibeen 
nd- 
Isick, 
er  a 
itter 
me- 
Itory 
lords 
lem, 


and  great  men  repeated  them  for  authority. 
"  What  did  the  president  say  about  last  night's 
address  ?  "  —  so  the  story  ran.  "  Why,  he  said 
it  was  perfectly  magnificent !  " 

The  questioner  whe:eled  in  his  chair  and 
looked  his  astonishment  at  the  speaker  before 
he  asked  :  — 

"  Did  President  Blank  say  that  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  with  a  shamefaced 
laugh  ;  "  but  he  said  its  equivalent,  from  him  — 
he  said  it  was  *good.'  " 

This  story  Sarah  Thompson  hugged  to  her 
heart ;  she  felt  that  it  explained  Wayne  to  her. 
His  "Dear  friend"  at  the  beginning,  and 
"  Always  your  friend "  at  the  close,  grew  to 
mean  far  more  to  her  than  the  "darlings"  and 
"  sweethea'-ts  "  that  camt  to  her  girl  friends. 
Ruby  Knowles,  for  instas  ce,  was  engaged  to 
Sam  Scott,  the  young  man  whom  Sarah  had  once 
imagined  she  admired,  —  she  wondered  over  it 
now  as  something  too  strange  to  understand, — 
and  his  letters  during  the  six  weeks  that  he  was 
avyay  from  home  were  spread  out  for  Sarah's 
admiration.  They  began,  "  My  dearest  girl," 
and  were  plentifully  besprinkled  with  pet  words, 
and  phrases  from  "  sweetheart,"  and  "  lovey  " 
down.  It  was  an  evidence  of  Sarah's  develop- 
ment in  several  ways,  that  she  was  able  to  assure 
herself  that  she  would  rather  have  "  Always 
your  friend." 


243 


'\i\ 


■  i' 

■  'b- 

■  ',  i: 

.'li 


I'i; 


By    M^ay  of  the    PVilderness, 

As  the  months  moved  on  and  it  became  nec- 
essary for  her  to  absorb  herself  in  something, 
Sarah  Thompson  chose  the  school  in  which  she 
was  still  a  teacher.  To  it  she  gave  thought  and 
time  and  prayer,  and  it  gradually  became  ap- 
parent even  to  the  dullest  that  she  was  making 
of  the  "upper  deestrict"  what  it  never  could 
have  become  but  for  her,  a  model  school. 
The  newly  fledged  young  teachers,  who  winter 
after  winter  found  their  way  to  it,  early  learned 
that  they  must  try,  at  least,  to  reach  up  to  the 
standard  of  the  assistant,  if  they  desired  to  hold 
the  position.  It  became,  in  course  of  time,  not 
an  easy  thing  to  do.  Sarah  Thompson  had 
"ideas."  As  she  read  and  studied,  they  grew; 
she  fell  into  the  habit  of  explaining  them  as 
well  as  she  could  in  those  long  foreign-bound 
letters,  and,  curiously  enough,  Wayne  Pierson 
grew  interested  in  them,  and  grew  intensely  in- 
terested in  the  school,  his  school,  as  he  began 
to  have  a  kind  of  pride  in  calling  it.  Sarah's 
ideas,  some  of  them  very  original,  afforded 
him  foundation  for  many  a  day-dream,  that 
being  a  habit  in  which  he  still  luxuriated.  He 
saw  himself  and  Enid  Wilmer  established  and 
recognized  as  patrons  of  the  upper  district, 
wich  Sarah  Thompson  for  the  leading  teacher. 
They  would  assist  her  to  make  it  a  model 
indeed,  and  to  make  of  herself  a  model  teacher. 
When  it  occurred  to  him  one  day  that  here  wa^ 
244 


<  t. 


•  K 


Conscience  Salve. 


a  possible  solution  of  his  own  difficulties, — 
Sarah  to  become  absorbed  in  her  school,  to  fall 
in  love  with  it  indeed,  to  such  an  extent  as  to 
make  all  other  interests  secondary  and  easily 
shifted,  —  he  hugged  the  thought  to  his  heart 
and  spent  almost  as  much  time  as  Sarah  did 
in  planning  for  the  school.  He  entered  into 
her  ideas  and  explained  them  to  her,  and  en- 
larged upon  them  until  they  became  plans  of 
which  she  had  never  dreamed.  Gradually  he 
began  to  send  her  appliances  with  which  to 
carry  out  thece  ideas.  Boxes  and  rolls  and 
mysterious  looking  packages  began  to  come  to 
her  by  mail,  by  express,  by  freight,  some  of 
them  ordered  from  New  York  or  Chicago, 
some  of  them  actually  crossing  the  sea  to  her 
and  bearing  that  fascinating  foreign  mark  or 
label. 

In  due  course  of  time  it  came  to  pass  that 
the  upper  district  was  the  pride  of  the  town- 
ship. Then  they  began  to  come  from  West- 
over  to  see  the  new-fashioned  maps  and  globes 
and  charts,  and  —  what  not?  that  that  inde- 
fatigable young  teacher  had  introduced.  They 
gazed  and  questioned  and  wondered  and  ad- 
mired, and  the  ht  .rt  of  Squire  Willard  swelled 
within  him  in  pride,  and  he  talked  far  and 
near  about  the  "  upper  district "  and  the  strides 
it  was  taking ;  and  the  Westover  Chronicle 
bristled  with  headlines  once  more,  reporting  its 

245 


,:i 


i 


< 


By    U^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

onward  march,  and  making  plain  enough,  for 
those  who  wanted  to  understand,  the  real 
source  of  the  wealth  that  had  fallen  upon 
Hardin  township.  For  the  people  in  Westover, 
as  well  as  the  residents  of  Hardin,  knew,  every 
one  of  them,  that  Sarah  Thompson's  "  beau 
away  out  in  foreign  parts  kept  sending  things 
to  her  all  the  time." 

In  truth,  Wayne's  gifts  were  royal.  If  he 
had  been  trying  to  bury  a  troubled  conscience 
under  a  wealth  of  modern  educational  appli- 
ances, he  could  not  have  heaped  more  lavish 
gifts  upon  the  proud  young  teacher.  When 
he  sent  a  magnificent  system  of  moving  worlds, 
sun  and  stars  and  earth  for  Sarah  to  explain  to 
the  children  of  the  upper  district  the  mysteries 
of  day  and  night  and  summer  and  winter,  the 
delight  of  the  people  knew  no  bounds.  The 
thing  must  have  cost  many  hundreds  of  dol- 
lars. Why,  it  could  go!  All  the  district  not 
only,  but  the  country  around,  nay,  all  West- 
over,  in  course  of  time,  came  to  see  the  wonder 
and  to  hear  the  happy  Sarah's  explanation  of  it; 
for  she  could  explain  it,  at  least  to  their  entire 
satisfaction.  Wayne  had  written  twelve  pages 
telling  her  just  how  to  do  it.  The  Westover 
Chronicle  fairly  exhausted  its  resources  of  ex- 
clamatory type  to  do  justice  to  the  exhibi- 
tion, and  the  proud  young  teacher  sent  in  the 
next  day's  foreign  mail  a  marked  copy  of  the 
246 


ess. 


Conscience   Salje. 


,  for 

real 
upon 
over, 
svery 

beau 
Kings 

If  he 

cience 

appli- 
lavish 
When 
/orlds, 
lain  to 
steries 
r,  the 
The 
)f  dol- 
ict  not 
[West- 
^onder 
of  it; 
entire 
pages 
jstover 
lof  ex- 
jxhibi- 
lin  the 
of  the 


effort ;  and  cut  out  another  copy  of  it  to  wear 
close  to  her  heart,  for  was  not  one  dear  name 
repeated  by  those  types  at  least  a  dozen  times  ? 
Happy  Sarah  !      Poor,  foolish  Sarah  ! 

She  was  developing  in  other  wavs  besides 
that  of  a  teacher  and  demonstrator  of  new 
methods.  As  a  girl  in  the  district  school  she 
had  been  fond  of  study  ;  in  her  loneliness  she 
renewed  her  love  for  it.  She  had  lonely  hours 
in  these  days,  or  would  have  had  if  she  had 
given  herself  time  for  them.  The  young  peo- 
ple of  her  world  grew  uninteresting,  and  by 
degrees  "  silly  "  ;  she  did  not  enjoy  their  soci- 
ety, nor  their  amusements,  and,  little  bv  little, 
unintentionally  at  first,  she  drew  farther  and 
farther  away  from  them,  until,  being  friends 
with  all  the  township,  she  was  really  intimate 
with  no  one.  I'hey  grew  to  admiring  Sarah, 
being  proud  of  her,  boasting  of  her  among 
themselves,  and  letting  her  alone.  The  first 
time  they  seemed  actually  to  forget  to  invite 
her  to  a  hallowe'en  frolic,  she  cried  a  little. 
She  had  not  been  to  any  of  the  neighborhood 
gatherings  for  months,  she  had  been  so  busy  ; 
but  to  be  forgotten  !  — 

Well,  she  must  be  busier.  She  plunged  into 
study  as  never  before.  Always  being  fond  of 
books,  she  lived  in  them  now  ;  made  them  the 
companions  of  every  waking  hour.  She  made 
rapid,  even  amazing,  progress  in  French,  when 

247 


l^^S" 


jmmm 


%fM 


I ; 


I  / 


i  ■ 


I'i. 


By    /i'^ay  of  the    IVildcrness. 

one  considers  that  she  had  no  teacher.  But 
directly  that  sentence  is  written  one  realizes 
that  it  is  not  fair;  she  had  an  excellent  teacher. 
Wayne  Pierson  had  learned  some  time  before 
this  that  he  need  not  attempt  to  arrange  a 
series  of  puzzles  for  Sarah's  leisure  hours  by 
writing  partly  in  French  ;  evidently  she  mas- 
tered the  letters  readily  enough.  Her  first 
timid  effort  to  reply  to  them  in  the  same  lan- 
guage nearly  took  his  breath  away.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  fully  realized  what  strides  the 
girl  was  making  in  the  language.  But  it 
pleased  him.  He  made  it  into  a  soothing  salve 
for  his  conscience  and  spread  it  thickly.  What 
an  avenue  of  culture  he  had  opened  to  the 
girl  !  but  for  him  she  would  not  even  have 
known  how  to  translate  stray  French  phrases, 
such  as  one  finds  in  ordinary  reading.  He 
added  yet  another  chapter  to  his  beautiful  day- 
dream ;  Sarah  should  become  a  magnificent 
French  scliolar  ;  she  should  go  to  France  some 
day,  why  not  ?  and  perfect  herself  in  pronun- 
ciation, and  become  celebrated  as  a  teacher ; 
and  he  and  Enid  would  talk  together  of  her 
wonderful  success,  and  congratulate  each  other 
that  it  was  their  work.  Let  it  be  well  under- 
stood that  he  always  took  himself  severely  to 
task  after  one  of  these  dreams,  and  assured , 
himself  that  he  was  pledged  in  honor  to  one 
with  whom  Enid  Wilmer  could  not,  in  the 
248 


Conscience  Salve. 


some 
onun- 
Lcher  ; 

f  her 

other 
mder- 
ely  to 

sured 
o  one 

n  the 


nature  of  things,  have  anything  in  common. 
But  he  used  his  powerful  influence  lo  increase 
Sarah's  fondness  for  the  French  language,  and 
filled  pages  with  explanatory  notes  on  obscure 
French  rules,  and  by  degrees  discarded  the 
English  altogether  and  wrote  everything  in 
FVench.  But  he  still  wrote  his  semi-occasional 
letters  to  Enid,  keeping  in  touch  with  her  life  ; 
asking  questions  in  so  shrewd  a  way  as  to  keep 
himself  informed  of  her  friendships  and  inter- 
ests, and  letting  his  heart  rejoice  over  her 
frankness  that  revealed  her  indifference  to  all 
mankind.  "  Why  should  you  want  her  to 
remain  indifferent  ? "  his  troublesome  con- 
science asked  him  occasionally,  and  he  sternly 
bade  it  be  still. 

Once  a  wild  hope  sprang  up  in  his  heart. 
Sarah  had  much  to  say  in  her  letters  that  win- 
ter about  her  associate  in  the  school.  He  was 
better  educated,  she  wrote,  than  the  others  had 
been  ;  he  reminded  her  a  little,  just  a  little  bit, 
of  him,  in  some  things,  though  in  others  they 
couldn't  be  more  unlike.  Wayne  grew  deeply 
interested  in  the  young  man  ;  admired  him, 
suggested  ways  in  which  Sarah  could  be  helpful 
to  him,  and  by  every  method  that  he  could 
conceive  labored  to  increase  the  girl's  mterest. 
F^vidently  it  deepened.  Mr.  Bateman  had 
been  showing  her  how  to  press  flowers,  and 
had  offered  to  get  her  some  rare  specimens  not 

249 


lU 


t  !  1 


By    IVay  of  the    IVildcrness. 

t:)  be  found  in  that  part  of  the  country.  Then., 
Mr.  Bateman  was  so  ghui  to  discover  that  she 
could  read  French  ;  he  did  not  read  it  very  well, 
and  was  working  on  a  subject  that  made  it  neces- 
sary for  \\\w\  to  read  certain  French  books;  she 
had  Dromised  to  read  aloud  to  him.  Wayne 
blessed  the  day  that  he  began  to  give  Sarah 
French  lessons,  and  waited  in  suspense  and 
hope.  Then  came  total  silence;  two  letters,  and 
Mr.  Bateman's  name  not  mentioned.  He 
questioned  so  closely  tluit  Sarah,  l)lushing  with 
shame  while  she  wrote,  confessed  that  Mr. 
Bateman  had  misunderstood  her  helping  him, 
and  —  she  must  have  been  to  blame,  father 
said  she  was  ;  he  said  people  ought  to  know 
what  they  were  about  in  this  world,  and  not 
just  by  carelessness  lead  others  into  trouble; 
and  she  was  careles;-,  she  supposed,  she  had 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing  ;  she  was  so 
sure  that  everybody  knew  that  she  belonged 
to  him,  that  —  Sarah  had  grown  reticent  even 
on  paper,  but  she  must  be  true — Mr.  Bate- 
man had  asked  her  to  become  his  wife,  and  she 
had  told  him  with  surprise  and  pain  that  she 
was  almost  the  same  as  a  married  woman, 
and  she  thought  he  understood  because  folks 
gossiped  so  much,  she  didn't  think  he  could 
help  it.  And  Wayne  had  groaned  in  spirit  and 
put  the  hope  of  Mr.  Bateman  forever  away 
from  him.  She  was  "  almost  the  same  as  a 
250 


Conscience  Salve. 


married  woman  !  "     Then   was  he  ahiiost   the 
same  as  a  married  man  ? 

In  all  these  wavs  the  months  and  then  the 
years  shpped  away,  and  Wayne  Pierson  still 
lingered  abroad.  He  had  taken  his  degree, 
and  spent  an  entire  year  in  travel,  and  it  came 
to  pass  that  he  was  rapidly  nearing  his  twenty  - 
fifth  birthday  and  had  not  yet  definitely  settled 
just  when  he  should  sail  for  home.  That  he 
was  to  sail  soon  he  settled  with  his  conscience, 
but  he  told  it  angrily  that  that  ought  to  satisfy 
it.  Wasn't  he  to  be  trusted  ?  There  were 
reasons,  now  that  the  years  of  study  that  he 
had  set  for  himself  had  been  successfully  passed 
and  the  year  of  travel  that  he  had  hoped  for 
had  been  indulged,  why  he  felt  in  haste  to  go 
home ;  and  there  were  reasons  why  he  felt  as 
though  he  could  never  go.  How  was  he  to 
face  that  "  upper  deestrict "  ?  It  was  no  easier 
now,  nay,  it  was  harder,  than  it  would  have 
been  at  the  first.  Sarah  might  have  improved, 
he  had  no  doubt  but  that  she  had,  she  might 
have  become  an  angel,  it  would  make  no  differ- 
ence to  him  ;  he  had  known  all  these  years 
just  what  he  wanted,  and  but  for  that  hateful 
story  told  him  at  that  hateful  wedding  long 
ago  he  might  h3ve  secured  what  he  wanted. 
Be  it  observed  tl.at  Wayne  Pierson  was  still 
at  work  blaming  rumor,  circumstance,  fate,  for 
all  his  experiences.     No,  he  reminded  himself 

251 


«i 


."    !i 


;r 


nr 


in 


1; 
1 1 


/^    //7/j/  ^/    t/jc    Jl^ilihrricss, 

occasioti.illv  that  it  he  hail  iio^  hccn  a  tool  ami 
rushed  awav,  taking  tor  truth  what  was  a  taisc 
and  malicious  story  turhishcd  u[)  to  ruin  him, 
and  tumbled  heaillotig  itUo  the  meshes  woven 
tor  him  out  ot  ignorance  and  misunderstanding, 
all  might  have  been  well.  Hut  in  the  main  he 
blamed  that  relentless  bate  which  had  pursued 
him  ever  since  his  father's  second  marriage, 
ami  the  name  of  the  b'ate  was  always  I  .eon 
llainilton.  lie  hail  bitter  reason  for  this,  it 
is  true.  The  determination  to  trace  the  rumor 
concerning  b.nid's  engagemetit  hail  become  al- 
most morbid  with  him,  and  bit  by  bit  through 
the  years  he  had  terreted  out  and  piecetl  to- 
gether the  storv,  until  he  kiiew  to  a  certainty 
that  Leon  Hamilton  had  with  patience  and 
painstaking  worthy  of  a  better  cause  planned 
to  ha\  e  the  rumor,  with  enough  details  accotn- 
panving  it  to  make  it  plausible,  tloat  through 
just  the  right  channels  to  reach  his  ears.  By 
what  underhand  methods  he  had  discovered 
that  such  news  would  be  as  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  Wavne,  that  voung  man  had  never 
been  able  to  learn  ;  he  was  obliged  to  content 
himself  with  the  muttered  statement  that  Leon 
Hamilton  seemed  always  to  have  been  in 
league  with  the  evil  one,  and  could  doubtless 
discover  by  his  aid  what  had  never  been  com- 
mitted to  mortals. 

There  had  been  times,  of  course,  when   this 
252 


Coriscicruc  S(f/vc\ 


this 


sorely  l)csct  yoiiiii^  ni;iii  hiitl  coiisiclcrcil  wlK-tlicr 
he  could    not   take   the  honest  vviiy  :iiul  fnuikly 

y 


cxj)hun  to  Surah  the  situation.  It  he  had  old 
dotie  so  at  the  first  !  If  durintr  those  first  few 
weeks  after  leaving  the  school  he  had  written 
to  her  and  been  honest  throughout,  had  told 
her  of  the  niood  in  which  he  hat!  returned 
frotn  the  wedding,  and  the  mistake  that  her 
father  had  revealed  to  him,  and  his  mistaken 
idea  that  as  a  man  of  honor  he  must  abide  by 
it,  and  his  ciiscovery  of  the  falseness  of  the 
rumor  he  had  heard  while  away,  and  the  cer- 
tainty that  it  revealed  to  hiiii  that  his  heart 
was  not  his  to  give  ;  it  might  \V'-  e  been  done. 
Sarah  was  true  ;  he  had  not  cirawn  her  on, 
and  she  knew  it;  she  would  have  accepted 
the  situation,  with  pain  jierhaps,  buf  with  true 
womanly  dignit\,  and  in  a  litde  wiiile  she 
would  have  forgiven  and  forgott  jn  him.  Hut 
he  had  not  been  honest,  he  hai  been  persist- 
ently fidse ;  and  as  the  years  passed  he  had 
stendily  fostered  and  cemented  the  falseness 
until  iow  she  looked  upon  herelt  a.\  "almost 
a  married  woman";  and  her  father  —  but  as 
often  as  Wavne  thought  of  the  honest  l)lack- 
smith  he  foiMid  it  difficult  to  suppress  a  groan. 
He  could  seem  to  hear  his  voice,  and  it  was 
"  Sho  !  a  man  that  can't  keep  his 
i  -1  himself  nor  nobody  else," 
_    moments,    Wavne    Fierson 

-^3 


saymg, 
promises  can 

No     in     L 


m ' 


r' 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 


assured  himself  that  it  was  too  late  ;  it  might 
have  been  done  if — that  terrible  "if"  ! 

He  might  well  have  groaned  at  thought  of 
the  honest  blacksmith.  He  was  honest  to  his 
heart's  core,  and  wanted  to  believe  in  other 
people,  and  was  troubled  and  anxious. 

"  Sho  !  "  he  said  to  the  long-suffering  Mrs. 
Thompson,  when  the  foreign  mail  came  in,  and 
Sarah  had  rushed  away  with  her  letter.  "  Sho ! 
how  many  years  is  he  goin'  on  that  way  ? 
Teachin'  of  her !  Who  wants  him  to  ?  He 
didn't  ask  her  to  be  his  scholar  for  a  lifetime ; 
he  asked  her  to  marry  him.  Anyhow  that's 
what  honest  folks  thought  he  meant,  but  he 
ain't  ever  said  a  word  to  me,  not  a  solitary 
word ;  and  it's  goin*  on  five  years  and  he 
a-courtin'  her  all  the  while  —  and  the  queerest 
courtin'  that  ever  I  see  in  my  life,  or  heard 
tell  of!  I  don't  like  it,  I  tell  you  now;  and 
as  sure  as  my  name  is  Isaiah  Thompson,  if  he 
on  t  — 

And  then  Mother  Thompson  would  take 
him  in  hand  and  remind  him  of  the  steadiness 
of  the  foreign  mail,  and  of  the  lavish  gifts  for 
the  school  that  came  all  the  time,  and  why 
should  a  young  man  spend  his  money  on  the 
"  upper  deestrict "  if  he  didn't  do  it  for  Sarah's 
sake?  Of  course  it  was  all  right,  and  Sarah, 
she  wasn't  troubled.  Only  yesterday,  when 
she  was  talking  about  some  nonsense  that  the 


Conscience  Salve. 


fht 


take 
iness 

for 
[why 

the 
kih's 
^rah, 
'hen 

the 


school  children  were  having  over,  she  said, 
"  Mother,  when  folks  can  make  me  believe 
that  the  sun  isn't  going  to  shine  on  this  earth 
any  more,  why  then,  maybe,  they  can  make  me 
believe  that  Wavne  Pierson  isn't  to  be  trusted : 
but  until  then  it  isn't  worth  while  to  try." 

The  poor  father  toned  down  his  grumbling 
into  inarticulate  mutters,  but  he  was  sore- 
hearted  and  afraid.  He  knew  the  world  better 
than  his  daughter  did.  It  was  an  added  anxi- 
ety to  him  that  he  could  not  talk  with  her  freely 
about  it  all.  His  Sarah  Jane  had  changed. 
She  was  just  as  loving  as  ever,  and  she  was, 
for  the  most  part,  as  cheery  as  a  girl  could  be, 
and  nobody  could  be  more  thoughtful  of  her 
old  father  and  his  comfort,  but  —  For  one 
thing  he  could  not  joke  with  her  any  more ; 
and  he  could  not  seem  to  so  much  as  mention 
the  young  teacher  to  her.  He  couldn't  tell 
what  it  was,  but  something  about  her  stopped 
him  as  sure  as  he  attempted  it.  The  utmost 
he  could  do  was  to  wish  that  he  had  "  never 
set  eyes  on  the  fellow  "  ;  and  this  at  times  he 
did  heartily. 


'2'^^ 


it. 


I  ?i. 


(( 


XIX. 

Who  is  Sarah  yane  ?  '* 


IN  the  way  that  he  had  done  all  important 
things  in  life  thus  far,  that  is,  following 
out  a  sudden  impulse,  Wayne  Pierson  at 
last  went  home  to  Aunt  Crete  in  time  to 
celebrate  his  twenty-fifth  birthday.  Up  to 
twenty-four  hours  before  he  sailed,  he  had  not 
been  sure  whether  he  should  start  in  another 
week,  or  in  two  weeks,  or  in  a  month.  The 
accident  of  a  friend  having  engaged  passage 
and  being  unable  to  go,  finally  determined 
him.  He  could  accommodate  his  friend  by 
going,  and  he  must  go  sometime,  why  not 
now  ? 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  why  a  young  man  so 
exceptionally  brilliant  as  Wayne  Pierson  cer- 
tainly was,  and  with  such  excellent  mental 
training  as  he  had  undoubtedly  enjoyed, 
should  order  all  his  movements  by  the  law  of 
impulse,  except  on  the  basis  that  the  one  fool- 
ish mistake  of  his  life  had  taken  such  hold 
upon  him  that  it  held  his  common  sense  in 
chains,  and  left  him  to  be  the  creature  of  the 
256 


I'  K  1 


' '  IVho  is   Sarah  yanc  ?  ' ' 

moment.  It  is  painfully  true  that  he  shrank 
from  decisions  of  all  kinds,  because  deliberate 
calculation  seemed  to  bring  him  nearer  to  that 
crisis  in  his  life  that  he  felt  must  come. 

To  Aunt  Crete's  eyes  he  was  vastly  im- 
proved. In  truth,  he  kept  his  best  for  Aunt 
Crete.  In  her  presence  he  was  again  the  genial 
boy,  entering  into  a  frolic  with  all  his  heart,  yet 
with  a  background  of  manly  dignity  that  he 
could  assume  on  occasion  ,n  an  instant  of 
time.  His  aunt  studied  him  carefully,  and 
there  were  very  few  particulars  in  which  she 
would  have  had  him  different. 

In  one  respect  he  still  puzzled  and  pained 
her.  As  a  young  boy  Wayne  Pierson  had 
been  his  aunt's  model  of  youthful  piety.  His 
faith  in  God  as  his  Father  and  Jesus  Christ  as 
his  Saviour  seemed  to  have  been  born  with 
him,  and  to  be  strong  and  abiding.  Aunt 
Crete,  listening  to  his  youthful  expositions  of 
all  things  theological,  had  been  wont  to  say  to 
herself:  "  Here  is  another  exhibition  of  what 
a  child  can  become  who  is  consecrated  to  God 
from  his  birth.  Wayne  will  never  know  the 
time  when  he  became  a  Christian.  I  presume 
Samuel  did  not." 

Alas  for  the  promise  of  his  youth  !  What 
had  become  of  that  assured  faith  and  that  pre- 
cocious wisdom  to  which  all  things  obscure  to 
others  were  made  plain  ?     Just  when  and  how 


>. 


!l   I 


By    IVay  of  the    Ji^ilderness. 

did  Wayne  get  so  hopelessly  drawn  away  from 
the  narrow  path  as  to  have  lost  sight  of  it  en- 
tirely ?  Aunt  Crete  did  not  know.  She  puz- 
zled and  wept  and  prayed  over  it.  She  tried 
all  the  devices  known  to  a  loving  heart  to  win 
her  boy  to  be  frank  with  her  on  the  subject, 
and  failed.  Up  to  a  certain  point  his  conduct 
was  satisfactory  enough.  He  went  to  church 
with  her  regularly  on  Sundays,  and  gave  re- 
spectful attention  to  all  the  services,  bowing 
his  head  during  prav^er  with  every  outward 
rppearance  of  reverence.  He  even  refrained 
from  criticising  the  sermon  on  the  way  home, 
out  of  regard  for  Aunt  Crete.  But  the  fond 
dream  she  had  had  that  her  boy  Wayne,  when 
he  came  again,  would  take  his  place  at  the 
head  of  her  modest  household  and  conduct 
family  worship  morning  and  evening,  and  take 
part  in  the  mid-week  prayer-meeting,  and,  in 
short,  be  in  this,  as  in  all  things,  a  model  to 
young  men  —  this  was  Aunt  Crete's  disap- 
pointment. She  tried  to  argue  with  him  a 
little.     Why  were  things  ijs  they  were  ? 

"  You  led  prayers  in  your  school,  you  told 
me,"  she  said  tentatively. 

He  smiled  gravely  when  he  thought  of  it ; 
that  experience  seemed  to  have  been  a  hundred 
years  ago.  What  would  Aunt  Crete  think  of 
the  roll  K^i  those  majestic  prayers  that  he  used 
to  read! 

258 


:  ', 


:H 


^^  IVho   is   Sarah   yaneP'^'* 

"  That  was  vvlieii  I  was  a  child,"  he  told  her, 
with  his  fascinating  smile  ;  "  now  I  have  '  put 
away  childish  things.'  "  Then,  gravely  :  "  No, 
Aunt  Crete,  it  is  too  bad  to  disappoint  you  in 
anything,  but  I  am  no  hypocrite.  I  am  not 
a  praying  man,  and  I  will  not  repeat  words 
of  prayer  when  my  heart  does  not  mean 
them.  I  am  as  far  from  being  what  you 
consider  a  Christian  as  a  man  can  well  be,  I 
imagine." 

"  But  why,  Wayne,  v  hy  is  it  ?  Your  grand- 
father, whom  you  grow  more  like  in  manner 
every  day  of  your  life,  was  as  stanch  a  Chris- 
tian as  the  country  about  here  has  ever  known, 
and  your  dear  mother  had  as  strong  a  faith  as 
any  woman  that  ever  lived;  it  is  wonderful  and 
dreadful  to  me  that  you  have  not  followed  her 
in  this.  I  am  sure  that  you  will,  sometime ;  I 
cannot  but  be  certain  that  her  believing  prayer 
for  you  will  be  answered,  but  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  that  you  will  wait  to  be  driven  home  ! 
Plenty  of  people  do  take  the  wilderness  road, 
I  know  ;  but  I  thought  you  chose  the  narrow 
one  in  your  babyhood,  and  would  have  sun- 
shine all  the  way." 

Then  Wayne's  face  would  darken,  and  he 
would  say  coldly :  "  I  have  had  none  too 
much  sunshine  in  my  life,  I  can  assure  you. 
Aunt  C»-ete ;  if  it  is  your  idea  that  God 
scourges    and    drives    people   in   order  to  win 

259 


^1 


1^ 


! 


By    //v/j'  of    the    IVildcrness. 

them,  that  wav  has  certainly  been  tried  with 
nie ;  but  it  has  failed,  as  1  should  think  it 
would  with  everv'bodv." 

He  thought,  this  wise  young  man,  that  be- 
cause his  mother  had  gone  early  home  to 
heaven,  and  his  father  had  chosen  to  marry 
again,  and  his  stepbrother  had  not  been  to 
his  mind,  that  he  was  a  terribly  ill-used,  for- 
saken man.  Hidden  away  in  his  heart,  not 
fully  owned  by  himself,  was  this  obstacle  in 
the  way  of  his  giving  God  his  ser\ice.  He 
ought  to  have  had  a  happy  life.  He  had 
meant  to  be  good,  and  true,  and  honorable. 
He  had  been  sad  but  not  rebellious,  he  told 
himself,  en  when  his  mother  went  away. 
He  had  determined  to  be  brave  and  bright,  and 
to  be  all  things  to  his  father.  He  had  done 
his  best,  and  with  what  result  ?  His  father 
had  turned  away  from  him  and  married  a 
stranger  and  brought  her  home  to  his  mother's 
room  !  Even  that  he  might  have  borne  in 
time,  he  had  meant  to  try  ;  but  there  had  been 
brought  also  atiother  boy,  who  had  been  al- 
lowed to  steal  his  place,  his  possessions,  his 
home,  even  his  father,  and  had  gone  on 
through  the  years  unrebuked  so  that  now  he 
had  no  father  and  no  home.  If  this  was  the 
loving-kindness  of  God,  why  then  —  He  was 
too  well  trained  to  complete  the  sentence  even 
in  thought,  but  he  let  the  subject  rankle  as 
260 


i 


t  u 


yiess. 

id  with 
hink  it 

hat  be- 

)me    to 

marry 

>een   to 

sd,  for- 

irt,  not 

acle   in 

I.     He 

le    had 

lorable. 

lie  told 

away. 

;ht,  and 

i  done 

father 

ried    a 

other's 

rne  in 

d  been 

en  al- 

s,   his 

ic    on 

low  he 

as  the 

le  was 

I  even 

kle  as 


^^  irho   is    Sarah   yar/e^'' 


much  as  it  woii/d.  Aunt  Crete,  after  trying 
by  all  means  in  her  power  to  win  him,  owned 
to  herself  that  she  tnust  let  it  alone  and  give 
herself  to  prayer,  and  wait  for  God  to  find  the 
road  by  which  this  child  of  many  prayers  would 
be  willing  to  travel  home  to  his  mother. 

There  was  another  person,  if  Aunt  Crete 
had  but  known  it,  who  was  making,  and  had 
been  making  through  the  years,  every  effort  in 
her  power  to  win  Wayne  Pierson  for  Christ, 
rhere  had  been  titnes  when  Sarah's  letters 
would  be  full  of  the  subject;  when  her  eager, 
prayerful  longing  for  him  would  crop  out 
every  few  lines,  despite  her  efforts  to  write 
about  something  else.  Knowing  as  little  about 
the  real  life  of  a  Christian  as  the  young  man 
did,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  Sarah  was 
evidently  growing  in  that  direction  also.  There 
had  been  wonderful  doings  in  the  old  red 
schoolhouse,  no  longer  ago  than  last  winter. 
One  after  another  of  his  pupils,  those  for 
whom  he  had  been  anxious,  and  those  about 
whose  futures  he  was  most  sceptical,  had  settled 
what  Sarah  declared  was  the  all-'mportant 
question,  and  begun  to  live  for  Christ.  Among 
them  was  Beet  Armitage,  the  incorrigible.  He 
had  taken  his  heart  full  of  hatt  cd  and  revenge 
to  the  Lord,  and  lo !  it  had  become  a  heart 
of  love.  Sarah  was  almost  eloquent  over  that 
description.    If  he  could  have  seen  Beet  Armi- 

261 


J 


Is: 


f 


U 


^il( 


/Ij/    tl\7y  of  the    Ji^ildcrncss. 

tap;c  one  night,  after  a  iiiectinir,  cross  the  room 
aiul  take  loev  by  the  haiul,  and  say  so  that  all 
could  hear,  "  My  l^rother,  I  have  not  been  a 
l)rother  to  you,  but  I  mean  to  deserve  the 
name  after  this.  I  ask  you  to  forgive  every- 
thing I  have  ever  done  to  trouble  you,  and  let 
me  begin  over  again  with  Christ  in   iiiy  heart." 

Wayne  Pierson  had  read  the  story  with  a 
curling  lip,  a!ul  had  told  himself  if  he  had 
heard  it  he  should  have  wanted  to  knock  Beet 
Armitage  down  !  lie  to  ask  forgiveness  !  If 
that  miserable  Joey  had  done  it,  why —  And 
then,  as  if  to  satisfy  him,  that  was  the  very 
next  news  !  The  half-brother,  joey,  had  become 
a  follower  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  tvyo  brothers 
led  the  boys'  prayer-meeting  together  but  the 
night  before  !  And  then  Wayne,  though  his 
lip  still  curled,  had  no  word  that  he  cared  to 
speak  ;  and  he  met  Sarah's  earnest  appeal,  then 
and  afterward,  only  by  marked  and  continued 
silence. 

Well,  he  lingered  through  the  sunny  weeks 
at  Aunt  Crete's,  letting  the  summer  slip  away 
from  him,  and  coming  to  no  decisions  in  any 
line.  There  was  somewhere  back  in  his  inner 
consciousness  the  determination  to  devote  him- 
self to  teacning.  Certain  of  his  professors  knew 
this,  and  twice  during  the  summer  came  flatter- 
ing openings  to  him  to  commence  his  life-work 
as  instructor  in  leading  colleges.  He  con- 
262 


I 


ll:i 


;  t  .> 


weeks 
away 
I  atiy 
inner 
him- 
knew 
atter- 
-work 
con- 


' '  //  7.70   is   Sarah    yanc  ^^  ' ' 

sidcrcd  theni,  and  pur  them  from  him.  The 
answer  he  ga\e  on  paper  was  that  there  were 
reasons  why  lie  could  not  positively  decide  as 
yet,  and  he  must  not  keep  thetn  waiting.  What 
he  told  his  heart  was,  that  once  settled  at  work, 
the  anxieties  of  Isaiah  'I'hompson  with  regard 
to  his  daughter's  future  couki  no  longer  he 
ignored.  As  long  as  he  remained  indefinite  as 
to  where  he  sht)uld  live  and  what  he  should 
do,  nothing  could  he  expected  of  him.  It  was 
all  very  well  for  the  poor  fellow  to  assure  his 
aunt  that  he  wa^  no  hypocrite  ;  he  said  nothing 
of  the  kind  to  liimself.  Instead,  he  told  him- 
self with  growing  emphasis  as  the  davs  passed 
that  he  was  a  hypocrite  of  the  most  despicahle 
sort,  and  found  a  shade  of  comfort  occasionally 
in  calling  himself  hard  names.  ()?ie  experience 
of  the  early  summer  that  had  opened  his  eyes 
more  fully  than  before  to  liis  position  ought  to 
be  recorded  here. 

On  the  steamer,  during  his  homeward  voyage, 
he  fell  in  with  a  college  friend  who  had  married 
and  settled  in  one  of  the  charming  suliurban 
towns  near  New  York.  Thither  \Va\ne  allowed 
himself  to  be  taken  for  a  few  days'  visit,  before 
going  to  his  aunt's.  BehoUl,  but  a  scpiare  away 
from  his  friend's  beautiful  home,  was  settled 
another  college  friend,  and  his  wife  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  Knid  Wilmer,  and  b'nid  was 
that   very    week   makipig  her  a  long-promised 

26 


T 
J 


•■( 


l''l 


r  1 


tit 


:     I' 


{  i 


By    JFay  of  the    IVilderncss. 

visit.  Wayne  luiggcd  to  his  heart  the  fact 
that  all  this  had  been  entirely  unknown  to  hini, 
and  if  he  had  belie  veil  in  I^rovidence  as  he 
once  tiid,  would  have  called  it  a  [providential 
arrangement.  As  it  was,  he  telt,  without  iiKjuir- 
ing  into  the  logic  of  the  reasoning,  that  the 
accident  in  some  way  entitled  him  to  have  as 
pleasant  a  week,  with  iMiid  as  he  could.  Of 
course,  under  the  circumstances,  there  was 
abundant  opjiortunitv.  lie  needed  not  to  lift 
his  hand,  or  express  a  thought.  Walks  and 
drives  and  sails  and  tennis  games  arranged 
themselves,  always  with  giving  iMiid  to  him  as 
a  companion.  Since  the  other  friends  were 
mated  for  life,  what  was  more  natural  and 
reasonable  than   this  arrangement  ? 

They  went  one  evening  to  Table  Rock  to 
get  a  wonderful  view  of  the  sunset.  iMiid  was 
a  girl  who  was  singularly  susceptible  to  the 
sole!iinly  grand  in  nature,  and,  as  is  the  case 
with  true  natures,  the  scene  had  hushed  all 
desire  for  conversation.  She  had  stood  apart, 
rapt  and  silent,  gazing  upon  the  crimson  and 
gold  of  the  distant  sky,  and  seeming  to  see 
veritable  angels  moving  in  and  out  of  the 
massy  bars  of  golden  light,  that  had  resolved 
themselves  into  turrets  and  towers,  as  though 
they  belonued  to  the  palaces  of  the  city  of 
(jod.  All  the  others  of  the  party  had  moved 
on  down  the  hill  ;  their  voices  could  be  heard 
264 


6*» 


'ncss. 

lie  fact 
to  hiiii, 
as  he 
idential 
iiKjuir- 
Kit  the 
lave  as 
1.  Of 
•e  was 
t  to  hft 
ks  and 
nnigetl 
hi  til  as 
s  were 
al    and 


ock  to 
lid  was 

0  the 
case 

ed  all 
ipart, 

1  and 
()  see 
f  the 

U)lved 
lough 


ty  of 
loved 
heard 


^^  Jl^ho  is   Sarah    yaric  ^ '''^ 

in  the  near  distance  beginning  to  chatter  aLi;ain; 
and  still  iMiid,  unconscious  (jf  it  all,  stood,  and 
gazed  and  ga/.ed.  And  Wayne,  a  step  hehiml 
her,  stood  with  folded  arms,  and  waited  afid 
gazed,  not  at  the  glory  in  the  sky,  but  at  the 
fair  girl  who  was  being  held  by  it.  Suddenly 
some  movement  of  a  twig,  or  the  rustle  of  a 
bird  winging  by,  arrested  her;  she  turned,  and 
discovered  that  they  were  cjuite  alone. 

"  Why  !  "  she  saiti,  "  where  are  the  others  ? 
Have  they  gone  ^  " 

She  never  knew  how  it  happened  ;  and  cer- 
tainly Wayne  did  tiot.  There  must  have  bee!i 
a  misstep,  and  she  must  lia\e  been  nearer  the 
edge  of  the  overhanging  rock  than  she  thought. 
lu)r  a!i  instant  she  wavered  and  would  have 
fallen,  then  she  clutched  at  the  jagged  rock 
with  one  hand,  —  and  then  Wayne  had  her 
in  his  arms,  and  was  carrying  her  cjuite  to  the 
beaten  path.  And  what  his  white  and  trem- 
bling lips  were  saving  was,  "  Oh,  my  darling! 
are  you  hurt  ?  " 

It  had  been  a  single  moment  of  peril.  It 
seemed  that  a  miracle  must  have  been  wrought 
to  save  her  from  the  fall ;  the  ravine  was  many 
feet  below,  and  the  way  down  was  lined  with 
cruel,  sharp-edged  rocks.  The  deathly  pallor 
of  Wayne's  face  was  certainly  natural  enough 
under  the  circumstances;  but  b-nid's  face,  for  a 
moment  pale,  flushed  until,  in  its  fair  beauty, 

265 


tf* 


^^ 


ilj 


■   i 


\i^H 


By    ff^^^y  of    the    lll/{/cn/css. 

it  seemed  like  a  reflection  of  the  glory  of 
the  sunset.  She  had  struggled  instantly  to 
free  herself,  and  then  were  heard  v^oices  near- 
jng  them. 

"  Why,  Enid  dear,  aren't  you  coming?  We 
did  not  notice  that  you  were  left  behind." 

"I  am  here,"  said  i\nid;  and  she  ran  and 
clasped  the  hand  of  the  pretty  matron  whose 
guest  she  was,  and  walked  with  her  hack  to 
the  village,  while  Wayne  and  the  deserted  hus- 
band paced  slowly  on  beliintl. 

(liven  a  sensitive,  naturally  ari  honorable, 
nature,  such  as  Wayne  I*iers(jn  possessed,  and 
can  the  night  that  followed  be  imagined  ?  Kor 
one  single,  perilous  second  he  had  spoken 
truth.  Truth  !  let  him  not  deny  it  to  his 
soul,  at  least.  Had  she  heard  ?  Oh,  she  must 
have  heard  !  What  was  to  become  of  him  .^ 
In  either  case,  even  if  she  had  not  heard,  what 
was  to  become  of  him  ?  How  was  this  terri- 
ble thing  to  end  ?  He  did  not  think  ;  not  a 
rational  thought  passed  through  his  excited 
brain  that  night;  he  just  tossed  and  exclaimed 
mentally,  and  saw  himself  at  the  bottom  of  a 
very  real  precipice,  with  no  way  out. 

What  he  did,  next  day,  was  what  he  told 
himself  that,  being  an  honorable  man,  he  must 
do.  He  went  not  near  Enid  Wilmer  all  day 
long.  There  had  been  no  engagement  that  ne- 
cessitated 'heir  meeting,  it  had  simply  been  a 
266 


iir^ 


'% 


w 


c 


)mhlc, 
j,  and 

pokcii 

:o    his 

must 

lini  ? 

what 

tcrri- 

not  a 

xcitcd 

liiiieci 

of  a 

told 
must 
day 
It  ne- 


^^  UIjo   is   Sarah   jfaricf^'''' 

tacit  utuierstaiiding  between  the  young  couples 
whose  guests  they  were  that  they  were  to 
spend  much  time  together,  of  course.  And 
this  day,  being  Wayne's  last,  various  plans  that 
had  been  until  then  overlooked  came  up  for 
discussion.  Wayne  negatived  them  all,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned;  he  had  some  writing  that 
must  be  done  in  the  morning,  and  iti  the  after- 
noon he  must  go  to  New  York  and  look  up  a 
neglected  friend.  Despite  fascinating  schemes 
antl  some  coaxing,  he  rigidK  adhered  to  his 
programme,  and  left  for  home  bv  the  next 
morning's  train  without  other  good  bv  for 
\\\\'k\  than  the  carefully  woi'detl  message  that 
he  left  with  his  hostess  foi'  her. 

And  the  girl  ^  Well,  she  had  heard.  Girls 
always  hear.  It  was  not  the  fright  or  even  the 
sudden  rescue  that  brought  that  lovely  glow  lo 
her  fliir  face.  It  was  the  sound  of  words  that, 
let  W^ayne  Pierson  say  what  he  might  about 
being  a  man  of  honor,  her  heart  told  her  she 
had  a  right  to  expect  from  the  young  man  who 
had  so  carefully  and  steadily  been  her  friend 
through  all  these  years.  That  day  of  deser- 
tion was  a  surprise  and  a  pain  to  her,  but  when 
a  woman  trusts  she  trusts.  By  night  she  had 
quieted  all  her  heart-throbs,  a  touch  ot  rising 
indio-nation  with  the  rest,  and  constructed  a 
theory.  For  some  reason,  and  since  he  was 
what  he  was,  undoubtedly  it  was  a  good   rea- 

267 


% 


■  i  :<■■  i 


u 


I :; 


'I  I J I 

ill! 


!'■ 


By    U^ay  of  the    JVildcrness. 

son,  he  was  not  prepared  to  speak  the  thought 
of  his  heart.  Perhaps  he  had  made  a  solemn 
promise  to  his  dead  mother  that  he  woidd  not 
engage  himself  until  he  was  a  certain  age,  or 
until  a  certain  thing  had  happened.  IVrhaps 
he  had  pledged  himself  to  accomplish  some 
definite  work  before  he  spoke  words  that 
would  commit  him  to  any  woman.  Perhaps 
—  oh,  perhaps  any  one  of  a  dozen  theories, 
what  mattered  which  it  was  ?  He  was  good 
and  he  was  true  and  he  was  grand  in  every 
way,  and  she  was  his  "darling"!  Sometime, 
and  it  must  be  that  it  would  be  very  soon,  else 
he  who  had  been  so  careful  of  his  words  would 
not  have  been  thrown  off  his  tTuard  even  bv 
her  peril,  —  very  soon,  probably,  he  would  tell 
her  the  whole  sweet  story,  and  then  she  would 
understand.  Until  then,  ^  Idn't  she  trust  ? 
Yes,  indeed  !  she  could  trust  him  forever. 

It  was  under  such  conditions  that  Wayne 
came  home  to  Aunt  Crete  and  managed  to  so 
conduct  himself  outwardly  as  to  make  her 
think  that  he  was  the  same  dear  heart-free 
boy  ;  and  he  spent,  all  things  considered,  by 
far  the  most  miserable  summer  of  his  life. 
The  only  salve  to  his  conscience  was  found  in 
maintaining  utter  silence  toward  Enid.  She 
had  written  the  last  letter,  and  their  corre- 
spondence had  never  been  sufficiently  regular 
to  make  delays  embarrassing.  Wayne  by  no 
268 


lil't 


■:.' 


gc,  or 

.M"haps 

some 


^ayne 
o  so 
her 
-tree 

.  by 
life. 

id  in 
She 

:orre- 
juhir 
/  no 


J 


^^  IVho  is   Sara  Id  yanc?'''' 

means  told  himself  that  his  correspondence 
with  her  was  at  an  end;  he  simplv  said  that 
he  wo'j'd  wait  until  he  decidetl  what  to  write, 
and  would  not  allow  himself  to  ask  just  what 
that  sentence  meant.  Knid  and  her  parents 
had  gone  West  to  visit  some  tar  awav  uncles 
and  cousins,  and  to  see  The  Garden  of  the 
(jods  and  Central  City  and  other  places  of 
note.  rhev  expected  to  be  constantly  chang- 
ing their  address ;  indeed,  Knid  had  frankly 
told  him  that  one  drawback  to  her  summer 
would  be  the  irregularity  and  uncertainty  of 
their  mail.  When  he  wondered  what  she  would 
think  of  his  lonnj  delay,  this  comforted  iiim. 

Moreover,  he  gt-ew  irregular  ev  en  with  those 
monthly  letters  that  had  heretofore  been  so 
punctual.  Someway,  to  write  to  Sarah  from 
New  England  seemed  very  unlike  writing  to 
her  from  Berlin  or  Paris.  He  was  frightfully 
near  to  her !  He  must  go  to  her !  The  ex- 
clamations hint  at  the  consternation  with  which 
both  thoughts  filled  him.  It  is  not  probable 
that  he  would  have  lingered  quite  so  long  had 
not  his  aunt  fallen  ill.  She  was  at  no  time 
seriously  ill,  but  he  tokl  himself  with  excellent 
reason  that  she  woull  miss  him  doubly  while 
she  was  ill.  So  he  siayed,  and  gave  his  days 
to  petting  her  in  the  most  charming  ways  that 
love  and  ingenuity  could  devise,  and  his  nights, 
too  many  of  them,  to  miserable  thoughts. 

269 


!|li 


ft' 


,1 


11: 


By    JV^ay  of   ^he    IVildcrncss. 

Then,  suddenly,  came  one  of  those  bomb- 
shells that  seemed  to  be  needed  to  quicken 
him  into  action.  This  time  it  was  a  telegram, 
more  imperative  in  its  message  than  even  tele- 
grams are  given  to  being. 

"  Sarah  Jane  is  very  sick;  you  must  come  at 
once.  Isaiah   Thompson." 

Aunt  Crete  was  dressed  in  her  new  wrapper 
that  morning,  and  sat  in  her  arm-chair  by  the 
window.  She  had  the  open  telegram  in  her 
hand  when  Wayne  came  back  from  a  trip  to 
town  whitner  he  had  gone  to  execute  her  com- 
missions. 

"  I  opened  it,"  she  said  ;  "  I  thought  it  was 
from  your  father,  and  might  need  immediate 
answer.     Who  is  '  Sarah  Jane  '  ?  " 


I 


271 


"1 


i 


XX. 

T6e  Demaiids  of  Decency. 

HOW  he  got  his  trunk  packed  and  the 
hundred  last  things  attended  to,  and 
evaded  Aunt  Crete's  bewiklered  curi- 
osity, and  got  himself  at  last  on  board 
the  night  express,  he  could  not  have  told  then, 
nor  afterward.  In  some  respects,  it  was  a 
more  bev/ildering  journey  than  that  first  one 
he  had  taken  over  the  same  route. 

It  affords  a  curious  illustration  of  the  young 
man's  state  ot  mind  to  note  how  promptly  and 
unquestioningly  he  obeyed  the  summons. 
I'his  was  what  bewildered  Aunt  Crete. 
"  It  is  a  queer  message,"  she  grumbled  ;  "  I 
should  have  thought  that  at  least  he  would 
have  said,  'Can  vou  come?'  If  you  were 
going  to  marry  the  girl  her  father  coiddn't 
have  done  more  than  that.  It  is  a  good  deal 
to  ask,  I  must  sav,  of  just  a  teacher  I  Hut 
then,  I  suppose  they  are  frightened  about  her, 
and  want  to  humor  every  notion  she  has. 
How  old  is  she?  Just  a  little  girl,  I  sup- 
pose  r 

271 


By    JVay  of  the    IVihkrncss. 


\\ 


Wavnc  was  giving  attention  to  a  refractory 
lock,  and  with  color  heightened,  no  doubt  by 
the  struggle  he  was  having  with  it,  allowed  his 
aunt  to  ''suppose"  what  she  would,  and  turned 
her  attention  as  quickly  as  possible  to  something 
else. 

He  will  remember  forever  the  curious  mix- 
ture of  pain  and  disgust  with  which  he  finally 
swung  himself  from  the  train  at  the  Hardin 
station.  His  reflections  during  the  journey 
haci  certainly  been  very  different  from  those  of 
five  years  before,  but  they  were  not  less  gloomy 
and  miserable.  He  dreaded  the  ordeal  through 
which  he  was  now  to  pass  more  than  he  had 
any  other  in  his  life.  He  had  not  believed  in 
Sarah's  illness.  She  was  not  well,  of  course  ; 
but  it  was  evident  to  him  that  the  sturdy 
blacksmith  had  taken  advantage  of  what  was, 
no  doubt,  a  slight  illness,  to  summon  him  per- 
emptorily to  his  duty.  Very  well,  he  had 
come,  and  his  mind  was  at  last  settled  ;  if  only 
he  had  settled  it  years  ago  !  He  should  tell 
Sarah  the  whole  miserable  truth,  and  throw 
himself  on  her  mercy.  He  had  not  much 
doubt  of  Sarah,  he  believed  in  her  goodness 
and  in  her  sturdy  purity  of  heart;  but  the 
father  !  —  Well,  if  they  held  him,  why,  he  was 
held.  He  should  not  run  away.  He  was  a 
man  of  honor.  But  not  of  such  honor  as  the 
blacksmith  demanded.  It  was  a  bitter  portion 
272 


Is 
11? 


less. 

actory 
bt  by 
^d  his 
:urned 
ething 

;   niix- 

fiiKiUv 
larclin 
)urnt'y 
ose  of 
loomy 
1  rough 
le   had 
:ved  in 
ourse  ; 
sturdy 
was, 
w  per- 
had 
only 
I  teil 
throw 
much 
iness 
It   the 
ie  was 
was  a 
as  the 
ortion 


The  Demands  of  Decenc 


cy. 


[K 


for  this  proud  soul  that  he  must  that  day  sink 
himself  forever  in  the  estimation  of  the  bhick- 
smith.  There  war.  another  depth  of  misery  at 
which  he  would  not  let  himself  look.  Suppose 
that  Sarah's  influence  sliould  prevail  and  he 
could  go  from  tliere,  free.  As  a  man  of  honor 
must  he  not  tell  iMiid  the  whole  story  ?  And 
what  would  Knid  say  ^ 

Then  the  train  whistled  once  more,  and  he 
was  at  the  station.  Thev  vwre  there  by  the 
half-dozen  to  meet  him  ;  his  old  pupils,  grown 
to  manhood  and  womanhood  now.  He  re- 
sented this.  Such  coarse  publicity  !  How 
could  decent  people  endure  to  make  them- 
selves a  town  talk  in  this  way  .^  He  passed 
them  with  cold  nods,  but  they  seemed  not  sur- 
prised.  They  held  back  with  strange  embar- 
rassment. ''How  do  you  do.  Professor?" 
they  said,  the  men  lifting  their  hats  respect- 
fully and  looking  after  him  gravely.  One 
pressed  nearer.  He  had  to  look  a  second 
time  to  be  sure  that  ii  was  Beet  Armitage. 
The  years  had  changed  him,  certainly.  Beet 
was  studying  music  in  the  nearest  large  city, 
and  was  going  to  make  a  success  with  his  voice. 
Wayne  had  known  that,  but  he  had  not  realized 
that  Beet  had  become  outwardly  a  gentleman. 
He  held  out  his  hantl,  but  had  no  word  to 
speak.  Wayne  wondered,  and  tried  to  be 
friendly. 

273 


.  lil 


;  i: 


!i 


I. 


By    ll^(jy  of  the    IVildcrricss, 

"  Well,  Armitage,"  he  said,  "  here  we  are 
again  ;  but  you  have  changed  so  much  that  I 
hardly  knew  you." 

"  I  have  a  carriage  waiting  for  you.  Pro- 
fessor," was  all  the  reply  he  received.  The 
carriage  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Wayne 
motioned  into  it,  then  Armitage  closed  the 
door,  and  he  was  whirled  away  alone.  This 
was  a  relief.  But  Hardin  must  have  changed 
in  many  ways.  Who  would  have  supposed 
that  they  would  consider  the  ceremony  of  a 
carriage  necessary  ?  Nobody  had  seen  fit  to 
ask  him  where  he  was  going.  'Hie  whole 
state  knew,  it  seemed,  that  he  belonged  to 
the  blacksmith's  family  !  He  sneered  at  the 
thought  and  chafed  under  it,  and  was  in  his 
most  cynical  and  at  the  same  time  bewildered 
mood  when  the  carriage  drew  up  at  last  before 
Isaiah  Thompson's  door.  He  half  expected 
to  meet  Sarah  in  the  hall;  her  invalidism  he 
told  himself  would  probably  be  equal  to  that. 
A  crowd  of  curious  boys  and  some  little  girls 
were  gathered  not  far  from  the  door ;  this 
angered  him  the  more.  "  We  ought  to  have 
arranged  for  a  public  meeting  in  the  town  hall," 
he  told  himself,  as  he  seized  his  valise  from  the 
hand  of  the  officious  driver.  Even  he  knew 
him.  "Never  mind  that,  Professor,"  he  had 
said,  respectfully  :  "  I'll  see  to  it." 

Then  the  door  opened,  not  waiting  for  h'j 
274 


'iCSS. 

iQ    are 
that  I 

,   Pro- 

The 
Vavne 
d    the 
This 
langed 
■>posed 
f  of  a 
fit   to 
whole 
Ted   to 
at  the 
in   his 
Idered 
before 
Ipected 
Ism   he 
that, 
girls 
this 
have 
hall," 
m  the 
knew 
e  had 

)r  y. 


ihe  Dcmcinds  of  Decency. 

knock,  and  there  apjicared,  iiot  Sarah,  not  the 
burlv  blacksmith,  but  I.nid  VVilmer. 

"She  is  living  yet,  Mr.  I'ierson ;  but  you 
must  come  at  once."  Her  voice  was  as  calm 
as  the  summer  morning,  and  \et  as  cold  as  if 
it  came  from  lips  of  ice.  Shi  turned  at  once 
without  gi"*ng  him  s  )  much  as  a  haiul-clasp 
and  Mn  upstairs.  Wayne  followed  her  in  a 
bewilderment  that  was  torture  —  followed  her 
to  his  old  room.  There,  kneeling  beside  the 
bed,  was  Isaiah  Thompson,  and  there,  with  her 
face  close  to  the  pillow,  was  the  gray  head  of 
Mother  Thompson,  and  lying  white  and  beau- 
tiful among  the  pillows  was  Sarah.  Never  in 
all  his  tortured  imaginings  of  the  scene  when 
he  should  go  to  her  had  she  looked  in  the  least 
like  this.  There  was  radiant  beauty  on  her 
face  and  in  her  eyes,  but  it  was  unearthlv 
beautv.  She  turned  her  eyes  as  the  door 
swung  open,  and  the  radiance  deepened.  "Oh, 
Wayne!  "  she  said  distinctly,  and  with  a  mighty 
effort  tried  to  raise  her  head,  and  it  fell  back; 
and  the  mother  gave  a  g'eat  cry,  and  those 
Vv'ho  had  been  watching  for  the  end  knew  that 
it  had  come.  Sarah  was  gone  away  where  lsIh! 
could  trouble  him  no  more. 

An  hour  afterward  tb^  stricken  father  came 
to  the  room  that  had  bet  \  assigned  to  Wayne, 
and  told  in  broken  sentence.;,  interrupted  by 
great  waves  of  grief,  what  he  could  tell  of  the 


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'^'h'- 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


lis 


^^^ 


By   JVay  of  the   Wilderness. 


i 


3     l 


Iti* 


i^: '. 


story.  He  had  wrung  Wayne's  hand  in  a 
grasp  so  mighty  that  the  pain  of  it  still  lin- 
gered. In  that  supreme  moment  of  sorrow 
all  the  forebodings  of  evil  that  tl  e  father  had 
felt  were  laid  to  rest.  Wayne  had  responded 
promptly  to  his  summons ;  the  first  train  by 
which  they  could  by  any  possibility  hope  for 
his  coming  had  brought  him,  and  he  had  looked 
like  one  stricken  to  the  earth.  He  had  loved 
her,  then,  and  been  honest  w.th  her  all  the 
time,  and  had  meant  the  best  for  her;  and  the 
endless  delays  that  had  seemed  so  unreasonable 
had  been  necessary.  Sarah  had  been  right  in 
that  as  in  all  things  ;  he  was  true.  The  father's 
heart  went  out  to  him  in  utter  surrender  from 
that  hour.  He  went  to  him  as  soon  as  he 
could. 

"  You  see,  it  was  all  so  sudden,"  he  said, 
trying  to  apologize  for  the  fierceness  of  the 
blow.  "  Oh,  she  has  been  sick  off  and  on  for 
three  weeks  or  more,  but  not  a  mite  of  danger, 
the  doctor  said,  just  run  down.  Yes,  she  was 
run  down  and  had  good  reason  for  being. 
You  know  that  place  we  used  to  call  the  hol- 
low .^  Well,  there's  been  sickness  there  all 
summer:  there  mostly  is,  a  shiftless  set  as  ever 
lived.  Sho  !  to  think  my  girl  should  have  to 
be  sacrificed  for  such  as  them  !  that's  what  it 
is,  Professor,  sacrificed.  She  would  go  there 
and  set  up  nights  with  the  sick  children,  and 
276 


iiil 


mess. 

nd  in  a 
still  lin- 
^  sorrow 
ther  had 
isponded 
train  by 
hope  for 
d looked 
ad  loved 
r  all   the 

and  the 
jasonable 

right  in 
e  father's 
der  from 
)n  as  he 


The  Demands  of  Decency. 

bathe  'em  and  fuss  with  'em  days,  and  do 
things  that  their  mothers  didn't  know  enough 
to  do ;  and  it  was  too  much  for  her.  First 
thing  we  knew  she  had  the  fever;  nothing 
dangerous  about  it,  the  doctor  said,  kept  saying 
it  all  the  time ;  jest  slow  and  aggravating  like, 
on  account  of  its  slowness  ;  and  you  see  we 
was  sort  of  expecting  you  every  day,  and  Sarah 
Jane  she  wouldn't  have  you  scared  by  any 
word  that  she  was  sick,  and  so  it  run  on  till 
all  of  a  sudden  she  took  this  turn  for  the 
worse,  and  for  twenty-four  hours  she  was  jest 
waiting  to  set  her  eyes  on  you  once  more  afore 
she  went  to  heaven.  I  thank  my  God  that  she 
had  that,  anyhow."  Here  the  story  broke, 
and  the  father  laid  his  great  head  on  the  little 
table  near  which  he  sat,  and  shook  the  chair 
and  the  table  with  his  mighty  sobs.  And  the 
miserable  young  man,  looking  indeed  like  one 
stricken,  kept  his  station  by  the  mantel  against 
which  he  leaned,  and  knew  no  word  to  speak. 
"That  girl  named  her  well,'  began  Mr. 
Thompson  again,  when  he  had  recovered  self- 
control.  "She  said  she  was  *an  angel  of  light' 
to  the  folks  in  the  hollow,  and  so  she  was. 
Everybody  will  tell  you  that;  sho  !  it  ain't  the 
hollow  folks  only  ;  she  was  a  blessing  and  a 
comfort  to  everybody  she  come  near.  That 
girl  loves  her  like  a  sister,  and  she  ain't  been 
acquainted   with    her   but  a   few  weeks.     You 

277 


^4  '  .: 


f: 


i 

H 


;■:    -;- 


H 


% 


1:! 


By    IV^ay  of  tke    JVilderness. 

know  who  I  mean  ?  The  girl  v/ith  a  queer 
name,  she  said  she  was  acquainted  with  you ; 
the  last  name  is  Wilmer." 

"  Enid,"  said  Wayne,  mechanically.  It 
seemed  to  hiiTi  that  it  was  the  little  plaster 
of  Paris  image  of  Samuel  on  the  corner  of  the 
mantel  who  spoke,  not  he. 

"Yes,"  said  the  blacksmith,  "Enid;  curious 
name,  I  can't  remember  it,  but  Sarah  Jane 
took  to  it  and  to  her;  they  took  to  each  oiher; 
I  never  see  the  like.  She  come  here  about  six 
weeks  ago,  she  and  her  mother.  They  was 
going  to  slay  somewhere  in  some  quiet  place 
while  the  father  went  on  to  look  after  some 
mines,  and  they  jest  happened  here,  come  to 
see  that  Indian  mound  you  kno'/  eight  or  ten 
miles  north  of  here.  Well,  the  girl  took  a 
notion  to  stay.  They  wanted  her  to  go  to 
the  mountains  and  to  the  lakes,  and  I  dunno 
where  they  didn't  want  her,  but  she  had  jest 
made  up  her  mind  to  stay  here,  and  stay  she 
did.  And  she  took  a  notion  from  the  first 
minute  to  Sarah  Jane.  She  see  your  picture, 
that  one  you  had  took  for  the  scholars,  you 
know;  Sarah  Jane  got  it  copied,  she  missed 
hers,  somehow,  and  the  girl  —  what  did  you 
say  her  name  was  .^  yes,  Enid,  saw  that,  and 
knew  it  in  a  minute ;  and  they  got  to  talking 
about  you,  I  s'pose,  her  and  Sarah  Jane,  and  it 
made  her  feel  kind  of  friendly  to  Sarah  Jane 
278 


■■!« 


L   queer 
h  you  ; 

ly.       It 

plaster 

'  of  the 

curious 
ih   jane 
li  oiher; 
bout  six 
liey  was 
et  place 
sr  some 
come  to 
It  or  ten 
took  a 
)   go   to 
I  dun no 
ad  jest 
tay  she 
he  first 
picture, 
rs,  you 
missed 
id   you 
at,  and 
talking 
,  and  it 
h  Jane 


The  Demands  of  Decency. 

to  find  that  she  belonged,  as  you  may  say,  to 
one  that  she  was  so  well  acquainted  with,  and 
they  jest  took  to  each  other.  She  has  been  a 
great  comfort,  I'll  say  that  for  her.  My  girl 
has  clung  to  her  most  amazing  right  through 
the  sickness  ;  and  she  wasn't  a  mite  afraid,  and 
wouldn't  go  away  when  they  began  to  talk 
about  her  getting  the  fever.  Nothin'  catchin' 
about  the  fev^er,  the  doctor  said  ;  nothin'  at  all ; 
it  was  jest  a  low  state  of  the  system  that  made 
her  take  it ;  them  are  his  very  words.  And  to 
think  I  believed  his  story  to  the  last,  that  she 
would  get  up  and  be  stronger  than  ever.  Oh 
my!  oh  my!"  Another  great  wave  of  pain, 
and  Wayne's  misery  so  deepened  by  all  he 
had  heard,  that  it  seemed  to  him  the  only  way 
of  relief  would  be  to  lie  down  still  and  cold  in 
the  parlor  below,  where  they  had  placed  Sarah. 
He  lived  through  the  terrible  davs  that  fol- 
lowed.  From  sheer  inability  to  talk  to  anv 
one  he  kept  his  room  carefully.  They  brought 
him  food,  and  respected  his  grief.  Enid  he 
knew  was  much  in  the  house,  she  and  her 
mother,  acting  as  though  they  were  sisters 
bereaved,  instead  of  as  strane^ers.  He  heard 
her  soft  step  on  the  stairs,  and  her  low  voice 
speaking  tender  words  to  the  broken-hearted 
mother  who  clung  to  her  eVen  as  her  child  had 
done.  But  she  spoke  no  word  to  him;  she 
passed  him  swiftly  and  silently  with  a  far-away, 

279 


hi 


i 


IP\  \' 


m 


Hi 


I  , 


il 


i    i      :   'l 


1    ;  ci 


\l 


I  ^ 


iiii' 


1:  1 


,i 


By    Jl^ay  of  the    Wilderness. 

respectful  bow  when  they  chanced  to  meet  in 
the  hall,  or  on  the  stairs.  He  felt  as  far  re- 
moved from  her  as  if  he  himself  had  sunken 
into  that  ravine  from  which  he  had  rescued 
her,  and  she  had  gone  up  into  the  waiting 
glory.  It  was  young  Armitage  who  came  to 
him  from  time  to  time,  low-voiced,  thought- 
ful, himseli  heavily  stricken,  to  inquire  as  to 
whether  this  or  that  arrangement  would  suit 
him.  Mr.  Thompson  had  said  that  every- 
thing was  to  be  just  as  he,  the  professor, 
wanted  it.  Wavne  groaned  in  spirit  over  the 
words,  and  took  up  his  burden.  He  must  be 
chief  mourner,  then  !  Decency,  it  seemed,  de- 
manded it ;  nay,  more  than  that,  regard  for  the 
memory  of  the  dead  and  the  sorrow  of  the 
stricken  living  demanded  it.  He  must  not 
say  those  words  to  Isaiah  Thompson  that  he 
had  come  a  thousand  miles  intending  to  say. 
He  was  free,  it  is  true,  but  only  death  had  freed 
him.  No,  he  was  not  free ;  he  was  bound  by 
all  the  laws  that  govern  propriety  and  decency 
to  pose  before  the  world  as  the  intended  hus- 
band of  the  girl  they  would  meet  to  honor. 
It  was  an  awful  mockery,  but  it  was  a  solemn 
one.  He  had  played  ^he  hypocrite  for  five 
years,  and  he  must  go  through  to  the  bitter 
end.  He  gave  his  pocket-book,  well  filled,  to 
Armitage  and  told  him  to  come  for  more  when 
that  was  gone,  and  to  do  everything  that 
280 


erness. 

meet  in 

IS  far  re- 

1  sunken 

i   rescued 

z   waiting 

came  to 

thoiight- 

iire  as  to 

ould   suit 

at   every- 

professor, 

over  the 

I  must  be 

^med,  de- 

rd  for  the 

w  of  the 

nust   not 

1  that  he 

y  to  say. 

had  freed 

)ound  by 

decency 

ded  hus- 

honor. 

a  solemn 

for   five 

le  bitter 

I  filled,  to 

)re  when 

|ng    that 


0 


The  Demands  of  Decency, 

money  could  do  to  honor  the  memory  of  the 
dead,  and  not  to  let  him  hear  one  word  of  the 
details.  And  when  Beet  Armitage  went  away 
with  soft  tread  and  a  face  of  speechless  pain, 
the  poor  young  man  left  behind  groaned  aloud 
in  his  misery  as  there  flashed  before  him  the 
thought  that  that  other  one  was  stricken  in- 
deed !  He  remembered  that  there  was  not 
many  months'  difl^erence  betwn°t,  their  ages, 
his  and  Sarah's,  and  that  they  had  been  much 
together,  and  he  translated  rightly  the  look 
on  the  young  man's  face.  Tf  they  could  but 
change  places,  he  and  Armitage  !  How  freely 
would  he  pour  out  his  money  and  how  faith- 
fully would  he  give  his  time  to  making  the  last 
tokens  of  love  and  respect  all  that  they  could 
be,  if  Armitage,  the  honestly  bereaved,  might 
take  his  place  as  chief  mourner  ! 

That  evening  there  came  up  with  his  tea- 
tray  a  letter;  He  devoured  the  handwriting 
with  his  eyes,  and  left  his  tea  untasted  to  read 
the  contents.      Enid's  writing  ! 

It  began  without  formula  of  any  sort:  — 

"  I  was  to  tell  you  things  that  it  seems  not 
well  to  keep  from  you  longer.  Her  love,  her 
'  dear  love  and  trust,'  were  to  be  given  to  you. 
She  wanted  you,  for  some  reason,  to  know  es- 
pecially that  she  had  never  suffered  one  hour 
of  pain  through  distrusting  you.     She  had  been 

281 


i 


,.|^» 


l\il 


III  H 


in 


U' 


I     ■ 


;'  < 


15 


^1 


^1^ 


1;:  ^  1 

'  •  '  i 


By    ff^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

sure  that  the  long  separation  was  necessary,  and 
was  pain  to  you  as  to  her.  If  you  came  in 
time  she  would  tell  you  herself  how  blessed 
her  life  had  been  by  your  love,  but  if  you  did 
not,  I  was  to  deliver  the  message.  I  cannot 
do  it  justice ;  you  who  know  the  strong,  true 
heart  of  the  girl  whose  love  you  won,  can 
imagine  it.  There  was  another  message  more 
earnest,  if  possible,  a  pleading  cry  from  her 
very  soul.  She  wants  to  wait  for  you  in 
Heaven,  and  to  be  SURE  that  you  will 
come.  I  place  the  word  in  capitals  to  express 
if  I  can  the  intensity  of  her  plea.  I  feel  that 
1  am  but  a  poor  channel  through  which  to 
pour  the  love  and  hope  of  that  brave,  true 
heart;  if  you  had  been  with  her  and  heard 
her  for  yourself,  you  could  never  have  for- 
gotten the  scene  as  long  as  you  live.  I  feel 
that  I  have  learned  something  of  what  it  is 
to  love  with  an  utter  abandon  of  self  and  all 
selfish  aims.  I  count  it  a  privilege  to  have 
had  opportunity  to  be  with  and  minister  to 
the  closing  hours  of  such  a  woman.  I  will 
not  intrude  sympathy  upon  you. 

"Enid." 

If  the  poor  young  man  who  struggled  alone 
with  his  pain  and  his  remorse  had  needed  any- 
thing to  complete  his  humiliation,  this  was  tire 
added  touch.     What  must  Enid  think  of  him 
282 


yk  A 


"-ness. 


iry,  and 
:ame  in 

blessed 
^ou  did 

cannot 
ng,  true 
on,  can 
re  more 
om  her 
you  in 
ou    will 

express 
'eel  that 
hich  to 
ve,  true 
d  heard 
ave  for- 
I   feel 

at  it  is 

and  all 
Ito  have 
lister    to 
I  will 


d  alone 

\ 

ed  any- 
was  the 

I 

of  him 

1 

T^6e  Demands  of  Decency. 

now  ?  And  he  could  not  explain,  could  not 
make  her  understand  how  it  all  was,  and  that 
he  had  meant  from  the  first  nothing  hut  honor 
and  true  nobility.  In  the  name  of  decency  he 
must  keep  silent  now. 

His  brief  instructions  concerning  the  funeral 
were  carried  out  well.  Young  Armitage  had 
been  out  in  the  world  of  late;  he  knew  what 
custom  considered  necessary  in  order  to  show 
proper  respect  for  the  poor  clay  that  the  soul 
leaves  behind.  He  saw  to  it  that  everything 
was  as  it  should  be;  and  the  town  helped  him 
well.  All  Hardin  not  only,  but  the  people  of 
the  surrounding  towns  for  miles  away,  and 
many  from  Westover  besides,  came  to  the 
funeral.  The  people  told  for  years  afterward 
what  a  peculiarly  solemn  time  it  was,  and  what 
a  long  array  of  carriages  followed  poor  Sarah 
to  the  grave. 

Armitage  had  ventured  upon  one  question 
more.  Would  the  professor  ride  in  the  car- 
riage v/ith  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thompson,  or  — 
Wayne  interrupted  him  with  such  a  short, 
sharp  "  No ! "  that  he  turned  away  at  once, 
believing  that  he  understood.  W^estover  sent 
its  finest  carriage  for  his  use,  and  in  accord- 
ance with  the  custom  of  the  region  it  followed 
close  behind  the  hearse,  with  Wayne  sitting 
alone,  chief  mourner. 

"  Of   course,"    the    blacksmith    said,    when 

283 


^Si' 


I' 


i.,:| 


Ii  J? 


ir 


v\ 


m 


iU  V,    '■ 


II: 


-:  ill 


'f'. 


By    IVay  of  the    IVihlerness. 

Armitage  began  an  explanation,  "  that  is  as  it 
should  be ;  it  is  his  right." 

It  shall  be  admitted  also  that  the  father's 
sore  heart  found  a  crumb  of  consolation  in 
it ;  Sarah  had  her  rights  at  last.  The  one 
for  whom  she  had  lived  in  all  sweetness  and 
trust  for  long  years,  was  as  close  to  her  now 
as  could  be  arranged.  All  the  world,  his 
world,  saw  and  understood.  No,  none  of 
them  understood  the  weight  of  misery  filling 
that  first  carriage.  To  appreciate  it,  let  it  be 
remembered  that  from  the  first  Wayne  Pier- 
son  had  meant  to  be  true,  at  any  cost  to  him- 
self, to  his  idea  of  honor.  That  it  was  a 
mistaken  idea  may  perhaps  be  admitted  with- 
out argument,  but  such  as  it  was,  he  had  tried 
to  abide  by  it.  Alone  in  that  carriage  follow- 
ing that  fair  clay,  being  followed  by  a  father 
and  mother  who  had  lost  all  they  had,  he  felt 
the  veriest  hypocrite  that  the  world  contained. 
At  times  it  was  almost  as  much  as  he  could 
do  to  hold  himself  from  opening  the  carriage 
door  and  shouting  out  to  the  decorous  crowd 
that  it  was  all  a  mistake,  a  cruel  mistake,  and 
had  been  from  the  first.  Of  course  he  did 
nothing  of  the  kind.  He  sat  with  folded 
arms,  and  let  the  carriage  wind  its  slow  way 
in  and  out  among  the  graves.  He  alighted 
at  the  proper  time  and  stood  with  bowed 
head,  while  the  simple  service  was  conducted 
284 


Il 


ness. 

is  as  it 

'ather's 
ioi.    in 
le    one 
ss  and 
^r  now 
■Id,  his 
Dne   of 
filling 
t  it  be 
s   Pier- 
o  him- 
was   a 
i  with- 
d  tried 
fol  low- 
father 
ne  felt 
ained. 
could 
arriage 
crowd 
e,  and 
le  did 
folded 
w  way 
ghted 
Dowed 
ducted 


The  Dcmarh/s  of  Decc;icy. 

at  the  open  grave.  The  crowd  watched  him 
curiously,  and  pushed  a  little  in  order  to  get 
a  better  view,  and  whispered  to  one  another 
that  "  the  professor  looked  like  death !  " 

In  one  of  the  carriages  not  far  behind  the 
immediate  family  rode  Enid  and  her  mother. 
"  It  was  the  poor  girl's  wish,  mamma,"  Enid 
explained  to  the  bewildered  mother  ;  "  '  you  will 
go  with  me  to  the  very  end,  won't  you  }.  '  she 
said,  and  I  promised." 

As  they  turned  awav  from  the  grave,  Wayne 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  pale,  pure  face  ;  she 
was  not  looking  at  him,  nor  at  the  grave. 
The  day  was  westering,  and  she  had  turned 
her  eyes  toward  the  glory  of  the  coming  sun- 
set. Her  face  reminded  him  of  the  hour  at 
Table  Rock,  that  time  when  for  once  during 
all  these  wearv,  hateful  vears  his  heart  had 
spoken,  and  he  had  said,  "  Oh,  my  darling!  " 
It  seemed  an  added  hatefulness  and  hypocrisy 
to  think  of  it  now,  and  he  turned  away,  angry 
with  himself  and  with  all  the  world. 

"  I  didn't  think  the  professor  would  be  so 
cut  up,"  said  Squire  Willard,  as  they  talked  it 
all  over  that  evening.  "  He  has  stayed  away 
so  long  that  somehow  —  "  a  pause,  then  a  long- 
drawn  sigh  —  "but  it's  a  genuine  thing,  sure 
enough.  I  saw  his  face  when  he  turned  away 
from  the  grave,  and  it  looked  as  though  he  had 
buried  all  the  hopes  he  had  in  life." 

285 


I 
I' 


■X  - 


'f 


11  f 


I 


ti  ' 


>A\t 


■.    ) 


Mi' -^ 


I 


h  ;  I 


1    I 


XXJ. 

Whither? 

ONCE  again  Wayne  Pierson  took  the 
midnight  train  from  Hardin,  and  this 
time  it  was  Enid  instead  of  Sarah  who 

watched  him  disappear  down  the  one 
long  street  of  the  village.  It  might  have  been 
a  small  bit  of  comfort  to  his  troubled  soul  had 
he  known  that  she  stood  in  the  moonlight  at 
the  window  of  her  room  and  listered  to  his  last 
footfall  while  bitter  tears  rained  fiom  her  eyes. 
And  yet  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have  been 
consoled,  either,  had  he  known  the  cause  of 
her  deepest  sorrow.  It  was  not  that  she  had 
lost  him,  and  that  another  had  apparently  won 
the  first  place  in  his  heart,  but  that  one  whom 
she  had  trusted  and  honored  had  fallen  from 
the  pedestal  of  integrity  upon  which  he  had 
stood,  in  her  eyes.  He  had  bidden  her  good- 
by  earlier  in  the  evening ;  a  lingering  hand- 
clasp on  his  part,  and  he  had  tried  to  look  into 
her  eyes  to  see  if  he  read  contempt  there,  but 
they  were  cast  down  and  would  not  meet  his 
own.     Then  he  hac.  gone  out  and  indulged  his 

286 


i  iiiiiiiiiiii 


JVhithcr^ 


»ok  the 
nd  this 
ah  who 
the  one 
ve  been 
oul  had 
light  at 
his  last 
er  eyes, 
'e  been 
LLise  of 
he  had 
:ly  won 
whom 


n 


fro 


xn 


he  had 


roo( 


hand- 
)k  into 
but 


;re, 


leet  h 
redh 


IS 

is 


old  propensity  for  tramping  about,  that  he 
might  be  alone  and   not  obliged  to  talk. 

All  the  'old  liking  and  admiration  for  the 
professor  showed  itself  on  the  part  of  Sarah's 
father  and  mother  as  they  bade  him  good-bv, 
heaping  blessing  on  his  head,  even  though  they 
were  unaware  that  the  envelope  he  slipped  into 
the  mother's  hand  held  a  liberal  check  which  he 
begged  them  to  accept  as  an  expression  of  his 
gratitude  for  all  their  kindness. 

So  that  leaf  of  his  life  was  turned  over,  and 
he  walked  away  free  from  chains  that  had  bound 
him.  What  next?  And  whither  should  he 
turn  his  footsteps }  He  shrank  from  every 
place  he  had  ever  been  in  before.  He  could 
not  return  to  Aunt  Crete,  her  questionings 
would  be  torture.  After  reflection  he  decided 
to  go  for  a  time  to  one  of  the  large  Western 
cities  and  study  the  vast  tract  of  country  known 
as  the  West.  He  was  too  unfamiliar  with  that 
region,  and  this  would  occupy  his  thoughts. 

No  sooner  was  he  established  in  the  prosper- 
ous city,  a  gateway  to  western  wilds,  than  there 
arrived  at  the  hotel  he  had  chosen  for  head- 
quarters a  party  who  furnished  an  unexpected 
opportunity  for  carrying  out  a  part  of  his 
scheme. 

As  he  entered  the  dining  room  one  morning, 
whom  should  he  meet  in  the  hall  but  his  old 
college  friend,  Macfarlan,  for  whom  he  felt  sin- 

287 


I^ill 


15  ?i^ 


m 


i  V  ) 


■  h 


i;  i! 


By    Tf^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

cere  regard.  Warm  greetings  were  exchanged, 
and  the  two  young  men  took  seats  together  at 
the  table.  There  was  much  to  be 'talked  over 
as  each  gave  to  the  other  experiences  of  the 
years  that  had  passed  since  leaving  college ;  in 
part  at  least,  of  course,  there  were  sealed  records 
which  neither  young  man  revealed  to  the  other, 
not  at  the  first  meeting  if  ever. 

It  was  while  the  twci  were  driving  about 
viewing  the  city  that  Macfarlan  suddenly 
exclaimed  :  — 

"  Pierson,  do  you  know  you  are  the  man  of 
all  others  that  I  am  delighted  to  see  just  now  ? 
I  expect  to  go  to  the  wildest  West  in  a  few 
days.  I've  joined  an  exploring  party  sent  out 
by  the  government  to  explore  the  Yellowstone 
region,  that  vast  wilderness  lying  just  on  the 
borders  of  civilization,  and  I  want  you  to  go 
along.  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  that  you  are 
a  worshipper  at  Nature's  shrine.  Think  of 
over  three  thousand  square  miles  of  Nature 
unspoiled  by  man.  I  know  that  will  be  an 
inducement  to  you." 

A  question  or  two  from  his  listener  encour- 
aged Macfarlan,  and  he  went  on  eagerly  to 
dilate  upon  the  advantages  of  such  a  trip. 

"  You  know  the  expedition    that  went   out 

last   year    brought    back    famous   reports.       It 

must  be  magnificent,  according  to  all  accounts. 

There  is  every  variety  of  scenery,  and  wonders 

288' 


J^^ hit  her? 


without  end :  mountains,  plains,  forests,  rivers, 
lakes,  geysers,  canons,  and  even  volcanoes.  Of 
course  the  game  is  splendid,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity for  adventure  unlimited.  Come !  go 
with  us,  won't  you  }  It  will  be  like  a  glimpse 
of  the  primeval  world  to  get  up  there  where  — 

*  Nature's  heart  beats  strong  amid  the  hills.'  " 

Macfarlan  was  surprised  that  his  friend  did 
not  hesitate  and  interpose  objections  and  say  he 
would  think  about  it,  before  committing  him- 
self to  a  decision,  and  he  regarded  Wayne  with  a 
keen  look  whv/n  that  young  man  declared,  with 
ill-concealed  bitterness,  that  he  was  more  than 
willing  to  go  anywhere  away  from  the  world. 
After  having  urged  him  with  enthusiasm  to  go, 
he  nevertheless  felt  called  upon  to  warn  him 
that  the  journey  was  a  perilous  one,  and  the 
hardships  great.  His  friends,  too.  What  of 
them  }  Wayne  smiled  at  that.  Who  in  the 
wide  earth  cared  aoout  his  comings  and  goings 
except  the  dear  aunt  up  in  Berkshire  ?  As  for 
being  free,  he  was  free  as  any  vagabond  in  the 
universe.  He  caught  at  the  proposition  to  join 
the  expedition  with  eagerness.  The  deeper  he 
could  bury  himself,  the  better  it  suited  him. 
Moreover,  it  was  in  the  lin-^  of  his  own  plans, 
and  an  opportunity  that  might  come  but  once 
in  a  lifetime. 

289 


u 


11  =r " 


■m\\ 


n 


1 1 
I 


5  A 


i.'r 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

He  was  soon  suitably  equipped,  and  the 
party  set  out  in  high  spirits.  The  long  jour- 
ney by  rail  was  monotonous,  and  all  rejoiced 
when,  leaving  railroads  and  civilization  behind 
them,  they  mounted  horses  and  galloped  away 
in  the  freshness  of  an  early  summer  morning. 
Even  Wayne  caught  the  infection  of  buoyant 
spirits  in  the  exhilarating  atmosphere  and  sense 
of  freedom  as  they  skimmed  over  the  plains. 
The  novel  experience,  the  keen  enjoyment  of 
Nature's  wonders,  and  the  gay  companionship, 
left  him  little  room  for  gloomy  meditations. 
He  felt  like  one  who  had  cast  his  past  behind 
him  and  entered  upon  a  new  stage  of  existence. 
He  wished  it  might  last  forever,  this  swift  ride 
among  the  fragrant  pines.  It  was  typical  of 
life,  this  pathway  through  the  wilderness.  But 
yesterday  it  lay  over  breezy  uplands  and  sunny 
slopes.  Stretching  away  in  the  distance  was  a 
clear,  flower-bordered  path,  blue  skies,  trans- 
porting views  on  every  side,  and  the  gleam  of 
bright  wings  with  a  grand  chorus  of  wild,  sweet 
airs.  And  it  was  yet  like  life  when  mists  turned 
blue  skies  to  gray,  and  the  path  lay  over  moun- 
tain passes,  or  in  the  lowlands  where  uprooted 
trees  barred  the  way  through  the  storm-swept 

valley. 

It  was  one  night  when  Wayne's   turn   had 
come  to  keep  watch  of  the  fires  which  they  had 
built  for  protection  against  wild  beasts,  that  his 
290 


i(i.h 


nd    the 
ig  jour- 
rejoiced 
behind 
id  away 
lorning. 
buoyant 
id  sense 
;  plains, 
nent  of 
ionship, 
itations. 
behind 
cistence. 
vift  ride 
3ical  of 
;s.     But 
i  sunny 
;e  was  a 
,  trans- 
earn  of 
,  sweet 
turned 
muun- 
rooted 
-swept 


rn 


had 
ey  had 
that  his 


IV hit  her? 


\\ 


troubles  came  down  upon  him  like  a  nightmare. 
Usually  two  shared  the  night  watch,  but  Wayne 
had  declined  the  offer  of  companionship,  saying 
he  had  writing  to  do  and  would  be  unsociable. 

While  the  others  stretched  themselves  in  pro- 
found sleep,  the  one  silent  watcher  sat  gazing 
into  the  fire,  recalling  the  events  of  the  past 
few  weeks ;  especially  every  word  and  look  of 
Enid's  when  last  they  had  met,  the  memory 
of  v/hich  he  had  heretofore  steadily  put  from 
him.  But  now  haunting  thoughts  trooped 
into  his  mind  and  took  possession.  Oh,  those 
days  of  torture  !  the  end  of  a  labyrinth  of 
mistakes,  resulting  in  being  misinterpreted  and 
misunderstood  and  probably  scorned  by  her. 
And  he  with  no  opportunity  to  speak  a  word 
in  his  own  defence  !  He  could  see  again  the 
cold  disapproval  in  her  true  eyes  \vhen  she  had 
met  him  at  Mr.  Thompson's  door.  Suddenly 
a  resolute  look  came  into  his  face,  and  he  told 
himself  that  he  did  not  intend  to  rest  quietly 
under  her  censure  without  an  attempt  to  vindi- 
cate his  honor.  It  was  bad  enough,  but  he 
was  not  the  contemptible  creature  she  evidently 
believed  him  to  be.  He  would  write  out  the 
whole  plain  truth  and  send  it  to  her  as  soon  as 
possible.     He  would  begin  at  once. 

In  a  capacious  pocket  of  his  coat  were  writ- 
ing materials  enough  to  last  a  considerable 
time ;  he  had  thought  to  make  full  notes  of 

291 


fill 


f!^"'-|iM. 


ii: 


It 


.  1 1 


By    J4^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

the  topography  of  the  country,  as  well  as  jot 
down  the  incidents  of  the  journey.  But  the 
writing  that  rapidly  filled  the  pages  of  a  tablet 
was  of  intenser  interest  than  anything  of  that 
sort  could  be. 

"  To  vindicate  myself  as  far  as  possible,  I 
must  go  back  a  few  years  in  my  history,"  he 
wrote  in  his  letter  to  Enid. 

Then  there  followed  an  account  of  the  cause 
and  manner  of  his  leaving  home,  his  teaching, 
the  story  of  his  relations  with  Sarah  Thompson, 
and  the  wretched  mistake  which  the  immature 
judgment  of  his  young  manhood  had  allowed 
to  go  uncorrected,  believing  that  such  was  the 
only  noble  course,  and  how  it  had  culminated 
in  misery  through  the  unhappy  years. 

"I  may  never  see  you  again,"  he  wrote;  "but 
whether  I  do  or  not,  I  want  you  to  know  that 
I  have  been  guilty  of  no  greater  sins  in  this 
connection  than  the  carelessness  of  youth,  and 
what  I  now  see  to  have  been  an  error  of  judg- 
ment. Since  the  morning  we  stood  together 
in  the  woods  and  said  good-by  I  have  cher- 
ished in  my  heart  the  image  of  the  girl  who 
then  gave  me  a  white  rose.  It  has  been  my 
precious  treasure  through  wanderings  on  sea 
and  land,  because  it  was  to  me  a  type  of  her- 
self Never  has  there  been  a  throb  of  my 
heart  or  even  a  straying  of  fancy  for  any  other 
woman.  Never  did  I  knowingly,  in  thought, 
292 


mess. 


JV hither^ 


11  as  jot 

But  the 

a  tablet 

;  of  that 

ssible,  I 
ory,"  he 

he  cause 
teaching, 
ompson, 
m  mature 
L  allowed 
was  the 
Iminated 

te;  "but 
now  that 
in  this 
uth, and 
of  judg- 
together 
her- 


ve  c 


o 


rl  wh 
)een  my 
on  sea 


o 


f  h 


er- 


or    my 

y  other 

fhought, 


word,  or  deed,  give  Sarah  Thompson  reason  to 
suppose  that  I  had  more  than  friendly  interest 
in  her  until  I  fancied  that  circumstances  com- 
pelled me  to  engage  myself  to  her.  The  words 
I  spoke  to  you  at  Table  Rock,  which  forced 
themselves  from  my  lips  when  I  was  off  my 
guard,  were  my  heart's  deepest  secret  and  the 
truth  which  I  longed  to  tell  you  months  ago, 
but  could  not  honorably  because  of  what  you 
now  know.  You  ma)'  imagine  my  deep  dis- 
tress at  being  obliged  to  go  through  what  I 
did  at  Sarah's  funeral,  posing  as  chief  mourner, 
and  feeling  like  the  veriest  hypocrite  chat  ever 
breathed.  I  had  already  decided,  before  the 
summons  came,  to  tell  Sarah  the  truth,  for  I 
could  not  longer  lend  myself  to  deceit.  I  am 
glad  she  was  spared  that  pain  now,  and  you 
can  understand  why  I  did  not  disturb  her 
father  and  mother  by  any  such  revelation,  and 
why  I  was  obliged  to  act  the  hypocrite  to  the 
bitter  end.  My  punishment  for  egotism,  in 
not  seeking  advice  from  older  and  wiser  ones, 
for  violating  the  strongest  principle  of  my 
manhood,  and  allowing  myself  to  appear  to  be 
true  in  relations  to  which  my  whole  soul  re- 
volted, has  been  at  times  almost  greater  than 
I  could  bear,  especially  the  thought  that 
your  confidence  in  me  is  shattered.  So,  my 
friend,  even  if  you  cannot  give  me  what  I  dare 
not  ask,  I  pray  you  let  me  at  least  have  kindly 

293 


%^. 


•H  H  ■  . 


m 


1'     '^' 

m 


11 


!i 


.  1 


ill 


i  i!  ■;   !  ! 


I  i, 


By    fJ^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

judgment  from  the  one  being  who  is  dearer  to 
me  than  the  whole  world  besides,  and  believe 
me  that  I   hate,  abhor,  every  false  way." 

He  had  not  felt  so  great  a  sense  of  relief  in 
a  long  time  as  when  he  folded  those  sheets, 
placed  them  in  an  envelope,  sealed  and  ad- 
dressed it.  Now,  even  if  he  never  came  safely 
through  the  wilderness,  his  comrades  would 
send  the  letter,  and  Enid  would  know  the 
whole  truth,  that  he  had  meant  to  be  all  that 
was  right  and  honorable,  and  learn  that  he  had 
loved  her  and  her  alone  ;  and  then  he  wondered 
again  for  the  hundredth  time  whether  that  rosy 
glow  that  overspread  her  face  at  Table  Rock 
was  the  mere  reflection  of  the  sun,  or  what  he 
hoped  it  might  have  been. 

But  then  he  grew  hot  and  uncomfortable 
when  he  reflected  upon  what  she  must  have 
thought  of  him  afterward.  No  man  could  be 
accounted  honorable  who  had  spoken  words 
like  those  to  a  girl  and  then  silently  retreated. 

It  was  after  the  expedition  had  reached  the 
heart  of  the  forest  that  they  came  one  day  upon 
a  piled-up  mass  of  trees  uprooted  by  the  storm, 
which  made  a  wall  high  and  wide  across  their 
path.  To  add  to  the  difficulty  the  under- 
growth on  either  side  was  extremely  dense. 
Every  member  of  the  party  at  once  became 
sure  that  he  could  find  a  way  through  or 
around  the  barrier,  There  was  a  fascination 
294 


erness. 

dearer  to 
d  believe 

relief  in 
e   sheets, 

and  ad- 
tne  safely 
ss  would 
mow  the 
I  all  that 
It  he  had 
vondered 
that  rosy 
)le  Rock. 

what  he 

fortable 
St  have 
ould  be 
|n  words 
treated, 
hed  the 
ly  upon 
storm, 
|ss  their 
under- 
dense. 
Ibecame 
igh  or 
lination 


JVhkherP 


about  exploring  for  one's  self  hard  to  be  re- 
sisted by  the  more  venturesome,  and  each 
plunged  into  the  forest  in  different  directions, 
with  the  understanding  that  whoever  found 
egress  was  to  signal  to  the  others.  It  was 
after  a  long,  weary  struggle  that  the  party 
found  themselves  upon  the  trail  again.  'Fheir 
satisfaction  turned  to  disma}',  however,  when 
they  discovered  that  one  of  their  number  was 
missing. 

"Where  is  Pierson  ?  "  one  shouted  to  an- 
other, excitedly.  Then  the  woods  echoed  to 
his  name,  and  anxious  glances  passed  between 
the  men  when  no  response  came  to  their 
signals. 

"  How  could  he  have  got  out  of  hearing  so 
soon  ?  "  asked  one. 

And  another  replied;  — 

"You  forget  it  is  many  hours  since  first  we 
came  upon  the  blockade.  He  probably  made 
a  dash  into  the  woods  and  became  separated 
from  us  at  the  very  first." 

"  He  is  an  impulsive  fellow,"  said  one. 

"  And  a  brave,  daring  spirit  as  ever  breathed," 
Macfarlan  answered,  with  a  frown. 

They  drew  near  each  other  and  consulted, 
finally  deciding  to  put  no  greater  distance  than 
was  necessary  between  themselves  and  the  com- 
rade from  whom  they  were  separated,  and  so 
would  go  into  camp  as  soon  as  they  reached 

295 


' '  .i 

i      -  '< 
,    i'i  I 


]i 


I'" 


II; 

A'- 

A: 


I     1 


^    ^^  of  the    Wilderness, 

an  available  spot.  And  then,  gradually,  after 
the  manner  of  men,  most  of  them  settled  down 
into  the  comfortable  conviction  that  it  would 
be  all  right,  Pierson  would  surely  turn  up  in 
the  morning.  Nevertheless,  they  instructed 
the  watchman  to  give  the  signals  at  intervals 
through  the  night. 

And  the  one  lone  horseman  who,  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  pushed  his  way  through  tangled 
undergrowth,  what  of  him  ?  He  had  fancied 
when  the  way  became  blocked  that,  by  circling 
about  somewhat,  he  could  reach  a  clear  space 
visible  in  the  distance  which  must  be  the  trail, 
but  he  would  experiment  somewhat  before 
mentioning  it  to  the  others.  His  faithful 
horse  had  almost  human  sense  and  would  work 
his  way  through  difficult  places  where  many 
another  animal  would  have  reared  and  plunged 
and  refused  to  go.  On  he  went,  expecting  each 
moment  to  shout  to  the  others  to  follow  him. 
Unfortunately,  the  rest  of  the  party,  before  dis- 
covering his  disappearance,  had  decided  to  move 
in  an  exactly  opposite  direction,  consequently 
every  advance  of  each  placed  them  still  further 
apart. 

And  Wayne,  by  many  unavoidable  turnings, 
at  last  became  confused  and  lost  all  sense  of  the 
direction  of  the  trail.  When  shouts  and  signals 
brought  no  response  from  the  others,  he  was  not 
so  greatly  dismayed  as  might  have  been  sup- 
296 


f 


.  I 


JFhitkr? 


posed ;  separations  had  occurred  before,  and 
they  always  got  together  afterward,  so  he  rode 
on  confident  that  he  had  found  the  right  path^ 
beHeving  that  his  companions  would  soon  reach 
it  by  another  route.  Even  when  darkness 
closed  about  him  it  caused  no  alarm.  He 
se.  :cted  a  spot  for  his  bedroom,  p'cketcd  his 
horse,  built  a  fire,  wrapped  his  blanket  about 
him,  and  lay  down  to  sleep,  with  the  feeling 
that  supper  might  add  to  his  comfort,  and  that 
he  should  have  a  keen  appetite  for  the  camp 
breakfast  next  morning. 

He  was  far  too  weary  to  feel  either  loneliness 
or  fear,  and  slept  soundly,  rising  once  or  twice 
to  replenish  the  fire.  At  early  dawn  he  was 
still  on  his  way  again.  It  was  still  dark  in  the 
woods,  but  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost ;  cer- 
tainly he  was  on  a  trail  that  led  somewhere, 
although  the  pine  needles  continually  falling 
sometimes  covered  all  trace  of  it.  It  was  after 
weary  hours  of  travel,  and  breakfast  still  an 
unknown  quantity,  that  Wayne  dismounted  to 
cheer  his  discouraged  horse  by  a  rub  down  and 
a  rest.  "  Good  fellow,"  he  said,  with  one  arm 
about  his  neck  after  the  old  fashion  of  caressing 
Liph  senior,  "  you  and  I  are  lost.  Did  you 
know  it  ?  "  The  faithful  creature  elevated  his 
pointed  ears,  gave  a  cheerful  whinny,  and 
rubbed  his  nose  on  his  master's  hand  as  if  to 
say,  "  Cheer  up,  I'll  stand  by  you." 

297 


N 


! 
11  i' 


ii  I 


I; 

iiiii 


i  '', 


H  j 


^■ir 


^1' 


I!' 


I -A 


-iiri 


'I  .    1 


^    ff^ay  of  the    Wilderness. 

Alas  !  his  promises  were,  like  some  human 
creature's,  soon  broken.  Wayne  left  him  to 
browse  about  unhitched,  as  had  always  been 
his  custom,  while  he  walked  a  few  rods  away  to 
an  opening  in  the  woods  from  which  he  could 
see  several  vistas.  He  stood  trying  to  decide 
which  one  probably  led  in  the  direction  of  the 
lake,  where  he  thought  the  party  might  be  en- 
camped. It  was  but  a  moment  or  two  when 
he  heard  a  scramble,  and,  turning,  saw  one  of 
the  smaller  wild  animals  of  the  forest  darting 
away  in  one  direction,  and,  horror  of  hor- 
rors, Liph  in  another !  He  shouted  to  the 
horse,  but  fear  had  taken  possession  of  him. 
With  frantic  leaps  and  bounds  that  cleared  all 
obstacles,  he  fled  like  the  wind,  and  vanished 
in  the  distance.  It  was  useless  to  l:ry  to  pur- 
sue him,  and  yet  his  master  did,  tearing  as 
recklessly  through  what  barred  his  way  as  the 
horse  himself,  and  calling  his  name  long  after 
he  knew  it  was  in  vain,  keeping  up  his  weary 
pursuit  until  he  was  convinced  of  its  utter 
hopelessness.  Liph  was  gone  !  and  with  him 
blankets,  guns,  revolvers,  fishing  tackle, 
matches  —  everything  gone  except  the  clothes 
he  wore,  his  watch,  field-glass,  knife,  note-book, 
and  pencils. 


298 


XXII. 

"  A  Land  not   Inhabited^'' 


OF  course  much  time  had  been  lost  in 
the  pursuit  of  the  horse,  and  though 
at  first  it  seemed  to  Wayne  an  impos- 
sible task  for  him  to  pursue  his  jour- 
ney on  foot,  nevertheless  he  pushed  manfully 
on,  knowing  that  his  only  hope  was  to  reach 
the  camp  where  they  were  probably  awaiting 
him.  Refusing  to  yield  to  despair,  he  wrote 
notices  of  the  direction  he  had  taken  and 
posted  them  on  trees  in  an  open  space.  Fully 
convinced  that  he  was  on  the  right  trail,  he  felt 
that  sooner  or  later  the  party  would  come  up 
with  him. 

Through  all  that  day  he  had  cast  aside  dis- 
mal forebodings  and  cheered  himself  with  the 
hope  that  before  many  hours  he  would  be 
laughing  and  talking  over  his  adventure  with 
his  companions.  It  was  not  until  the  shadows 
of  night  again  closed  around  him,  and  he  at- 
tempted to  build  a  fire,  that  he  realized  and 
admitted  to  himself  the  extreme  peril  of  his 
situation.     Alone  in  an  unexplored  wilderness, 

299 


*)! 


ill 


1 


1 


H  J 


By    JVtry  of  the    IVildcnicss. 

no  food,  no  fire,  nor  means  to  provide  any, 
surrounded  by  wild  beasts,  and  famishing  with 
hunger.  What  could  he  do  ?  Nothing.  Ab- 
solutely nothing;  at  least,  not  that  night.  Faint 
from  hunger  and  weary  beyond  expression,  he 
sank  down  among  the  branches  of  a  thick 
growth  of  stunted  pines.  He  looked  up  to 
find  the  sky,  but  all  was  inky  darkness.  The 
wind  sighed  dolefully  through  the  trees,  the 
woods  seemed  alive  with  the  screeching  of 
night-birds  and  the  dismal  howl  of  the  wolf. 
These  sounds  had  had  no  terrors  when  resting 
by  a  blazing  campfire  surrounded  by  compan- 
ions, but  now  they  were  fearful. 

Despite  the  awful ness  of  it  all  he  slept  at 
intervals  through  the  long,  hideous  night.  At 
the  first  glimmer  of  day  he  crept  out,  stiflF  and 
sore,  to  pursue  his  dreary  journey,  hope  again 
springing  up  to  delude  him  into  the  belief  that 
he  should  momentarily  descry  the  smoke  of  the 
camp  or  hear  a  signal.  Hour  after  hour  passed, 
and  he  travelled  on  in  what  seemed  a  limitless, 
never  ending  treadmill.  When  another  night 
drew  its  shadows  about  him  he  sank  down  in 
despair.  He  was  lost !  He  must  resign  him- 
self to  die  there,  far  from  any  human  soul,  to 
die  of  starvation  or  be  torn  to  pieces  by  wild 
beasts,  with  no  fire  to  hinder  their  approach. 
His  safety  could  be  accounted  for  thus  far  only 
by  the  belief  that  angels  encamped  about  him 
300 


*it 


^^A   Land  not  Inhabited''' 

during  those  terrible  nights  and  defended  hini 
while  he  slept. 

In  the  morning,  while  the  sense  of  weakness 
from  hunger  and  thirst  was  great,  he  vet  girded 
himself  anew  to  meet  the  new  dav.  Me  re- 
membered a  statement  of  a  certain  philosopher, 
which  was  that  Providence  had  implanted  in 
every  man  a  principle  of  self-preservation  equal 
to  any  emergency  which  did  not  destroy  his 
reason.  The  thought  put  new  vigor  into  him. 
Why  should  he  perish  like  an  animal  ?  He 
would  not.  Force  of  will  would  sustain  him, 
allay  hunger,  and  bring  him  out  victorious. 
And  again  began  the  measured  tramp  of  the 
lonely  traveller  through  the  vast  forest,  crack- 
ling twigs,  and  the  matins  of  million  birds 
alone  breaking  the  solemn  stillness.  As  often 
as  he  sank  from  exhaustion  after  scrambling 
over  logs  and  through  thickets,  he  would  rouse 
himself  with  the  reminder  that  his  rescue  de- 
pended upon  himself. 

As  he  groped  and  stumbled  over  fallen  trees, 
oi  crouched  by  night  beneath  branches  to  pro- 
tect him  from  cold  winds,  he  had  bitter  thoughts 
of  that  God  who  is  said  to  rule  and  govern  all 
things.  How  could  he  be  expected  to  think 
of  God  as  a  Father?  It  w^as  strange  fatherly 
care  that  had  allowed  his  whole  life  to  be  em- 
bittered by  a  chain  of  cruel  circumstances  and 
now  left  him  alone  in  the  wilderness  to  perish 

301 


\    ".!' 


% 


■vi 


:'  l^li! 


■■:( 
i' . 


1 

iill 

1 

1 

1;  ■' 

: 

:•      i    , 
1.  ■ 

ii 

:)  ■ 

'          i  1 

1  i^ 
Mi 

1  ^ 

; '    ! 

^ 

iill 

1  < 

^    ^^^^{y  ^    tf^^    liildcrricss. 

from  starvation  or  to  be  torn  to  pieces  hv  wild 
beasts.  Yet  foolish  people  prated  of  I  lis  pro- 
tecting care.  He  had  always  believed  that 
there  was  a  powerful,  woiulerful  Being  who 
createtl  the  iniiverse  ;  but  as  for  Mis  controll- 
ing it  and  caring  for  his  creatures  —  that  was  a 
delusion. 

But  here  he  came  to  a  difficultv.  Surely,  his 
mother's  God  was  a  blather,  for  she  had  com- 
mended her  child  to  Mini  with  her  last  breath, 
praying  that  he  might  be  shielded  from  all  evil  ; 
and  she  had  loved  her  b'ather  in  heaven  as  she 
loved  nothincr  earthly. 

Probably  a  few  choice  spirits  knew  how  to 
secure  Mis  favor  for  themselves,  but  certaitily 
it  did  not  extend  to  their  children.  Mis 
mother's  dying  prayer  had  not  been  answered. 
How  could  he  for  one  moment  think  that  (lod 
loved  him  when  he  had  been  denied  the  happi- 
ness that  belongs  to  youth,  and  had  been  fairly 
pursued  with  evil  ;  a  bitter,  life-long  enemy 
raised  up  in  his  own  home,  and  his  father 
alienated  from  him.  Mis  years  of  young  man- 
hood, too,  had  been  shadowed  by  another  cloud 
—  his  conscience  made  a  loud  protest  just  here, 
declaring  that  this  later  trial  was  of  his  own 
making,  but  he  was  too  irritated  to  heed  it.  It 
was  a  miserable  ending  of  a  most  miserable  life, 
he  told  himself.  A  few  davs  more,  anci  he 
should  perish. 
302 


crricss. 

s  by  wild 
Mis  pro- 
:ved  thiit 
cing  who 
.  controll- 
that  was  a 

Hircly,  Ills 
had  coin- 
ist  breath, 
11  all  evil  ; 
k'eii  as  she 

\v  how  to 
■  certainly 
en.       I  lis 
answered, 
that  (lod 
he  hajipi- 
|)een  fairly 
g    enemy 
lis    father 
ung  man- 
lier cUiiid 
just  here, 
his  own 
edit.      It 
rable  life, 
,  and   he 


^'./   LamI  not   Inbuhitcd!''* 

b'amished,  thirsty,  footsore,  he  dragged  his 
weary  limbs  untlinchitiiily  on,  till  he  emerixed 
from  the  torest  into  an  open  space  atui  beheld, 
lying  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  a  broad,  beautiful 
lake  glittering  in  the  sunshine.  'I'lie  supply  of 
ilrinking  water  in  his  flask,  which  he  had  treas- 
ured like  gold  dust,  was  gone,  and  his  thirst 
had  become  -almost  intolerable.  The  sight  of 
that  wealth  of  water  put  new  life  into  him. 
Never  in  all  his  life  had  the  sense  of  t.'ste 
been  satisfied  as  in  that  long  drink  of  cold 
water  of  crystal  clearness.  Revived,  he  reso- 
lutely refused  to  think  of  his  swift-coming  fite, 
while  he  gave  his  whole  soul  to  the  worship  of 
Nature  here  in  her  very  tenij^le.  It  was  an 
enchanting  scene,  —  a  silver  lake  of  broad  ex- 
panse and  lovely  curves  was  fringed  on  one 
side  by  the  dark  torest.  A  mountain  range 
reflected  itself  in  the  water,  stretchinu;  away 
peak  on  [teak  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
and,  curling  about  them,  softening  the  rugged 
outlines,  was  the  ascetuling  vapor  tVom  num- 
berless hot  springs.  The  brilliant  jet  of  a  mag- 
nificent geyser  aiided  unearthly  beauty  to  the 
scene,  while  the  bluest  of  skies  overarched  all. 

'*  Nature,  with  i'oklcd  liaiuls,  seemed  there 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer." 

These  lines  came  into  Wayne's  mind  as  the 
sweet,  entrancing  beauty  of  the  scene  stole  upon 


J. 


'  ill 


\) 


.1  ■. ' 


By    J4^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

his  senses.  It  was  a  triumph  of  spirit  over 
flesh  that  this  famished,  jaded  being  could 
stand  even  a  few  brief  moments  in  adoring 
reverence,  hunger  and  weariness  forgotten  in 
joy  of  beholding  this  marvellous  beauty.  He 
was  soon  irritated  at  himself  though  that,  de- 
spite all  the  grandeur  about  him,  it  began  to 
be  as  nothing  compared  with  the  sound  of  a 
friendly  human  voice  or  a  crust  of  bread. 

Wayne  Pierson  had  sometimes  fancied  that 
he  set  little  store  by  life,  but  during  the  last 
few  days  the  words,  "  All  that  a  man  hath  will 
he  give  for  his  life,"  had  come  true  in  his  ex- 
perience. 

While  he  yet  gazed  over  the  broad  expanse 
of  the  lake  he  spied  something  that  set  his 
pulses  throbbing  wildly.  Surely,  in  the  dis- 
tance he  could  see  a  canoe,  and  in  it  an  oars- 
man, and,  O  joy  !  it  was  rapidly  approaching 
the  shore  where  he  stood.  He  paced  the  beach 
in  excitement,  while  visions  of  food  and  friends 
and  safety  filled  his  mind.  Nearer  and  nearer 
it  came,  and  now  he  discovered  that  it  was  not 
a  canoe  at  all,  but  a  cruel  delusion.  To  his 
bitter  disappointment  a  huge  pelican  presently 
stalked  from  the  water,  flapped  its  dragon-like 
wings,  and  flew  to  the  top  of  a  tall  pine  in  the 
distance.  It  was  then  that  Wayne  Pierson's 
courage  failed,  and  he  cast  himself  upon  the 
sand,    face    downward,    in    despairing    agony, 


>  li 


'mess. 


^^A  hand  not  Inhabited!''' 


\ 


irit  over 
ig  could 
adoring 
rotten  in 
ty.  He 
that,  de- 
began  to 
Lind  of  a 
ad. 

cied  that 
the  last 
hath  will 
n  his  ex- 
expanse 
^t  set  his 
he  dis- 
an  oars- 
oaching 
le  beach 
friends 
I  nearer 
was  not 
To  his 
resently 
gon-like 
le  in  the 
ierson's 
pon  the 
agony, 


as  the  horrors  of  the    situation    closed    about 
him. 

The  da/  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  he  must 
search  for  the  safest  place  to  spend  the  night. 
As  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  fell  upon  lake  and 
mountain  and  shore,  he  liad  no  heart  to  drink 
in  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  although  it  did  not 
escape  him.  His  attention  was  attracted 
though,  in  the  golden  light  that  brought  out 
everything  distinctly,  to  a  small  plant  of  bright 
green.  He  went  over  to  one  and  pulled  it  up 
by  the  root.  It  was  long  and  tapering,  not  un- 
like a  radish.  Class,  Syngenesia  :  of  the  genus 
Carduus,  the  scholar  promptly  decided;  in 
plain  English,  one  of  the  thistle  family.  He 
tasted  it.  It  was  palatable;  the  first  thing  he 
had  found  that  could  be  called  food  in  all  those 
four  days  of  fasting.  He  ate  it  eagerly,  joyfully, 
involuntarily  contrasting  the  state  of  the  man 
who,  during  most  of  his  lite,  had  scarcely  given 
a  thought  to  daily  bread,  with  this  poor  wretch 
who  counted  a  thistle  root  a  heaven-sent  bless- 
ing. It  seemed  to  be  nutritious  and  there  was 
abundance  of  it  growing  about,  and  now  it  was 
certain  he  should  not  die  of  starvation  as  long 
as  it  could  be  found.  With  hunger  and  thirst 
appeased,  there  came  a  wonderful  revulsion  of 
feeling.  He  grew  almost  cheerful,  and  set  about 
selecting  a  place  for  the  night,  finding  it  in  a 
sheltered  spot  between  two  trees  which  stood 

305 


\m' 


(.  \ 


;!    t 


By    14^ay  of  the    JVilderness, 

so  near  together  that  the  low-growing,  inter- 
woven branches  made  quite  a  luxurious  couch. 
If  only  he  had  his  blanket  which  was  fastened 
to  the  horse.  Poor  Liph,  where  was  he,  and 
how  fared  it  with  him  ^  Wayne  did  not  give 
himself  up  to  slumber  at  once  that  night.  The 
spot  was  even  more  entrancing  with  the  light 
of  a  full  moon  glorifying  it;  opportunities  like 
this  must  not  be  wasted  in  sleep.  He  seated 
himself  on  a  bluff  that  overlooked  the  won- 
drous panorama,  and  gazed  in  delight.  The 
quiet  scene  soothed  and  calmed  him.  The 
lovely  lake,  with  shimmering  waters  and  setting 
of  mountain  and  forest,  reminded  him  of  scenes 
among  the  hills  of  Palestine,  and  of  a  hymn  he 
had  often  sung ;  he  softly  hummed  the  air,  and 
then  the  magnificent  voice,  that  choirs  and  con- 
certs counted  it  a  privilege  to  obtain,  lifted  it- 
self up  in  song,  mountains  and  forest  reechoing 
the  words  of  the  simple  strains. 

**  Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night. 
Come  heaven's  melodious  strains. 
Where  wild  Judea  stretches  tar 
Her  silver-mantled  plains. 
Cv^lestial  choirs  from  courts  above 
Shed  sacred  glories  there. 
And  angels  with  their  sparkHng  lyres 
Make  music  on  the  air. 

# 

"The  answering  hills  of  Palestine 
Send  back  the  glad  reply, 

306 


krness. 


^^A  hand  not  Inhabited!''' 


,fi'i:/  jl 


ing,  inter- 
3US  couch. 
-s  fastened 
IS  he,  and 
I  not  give 
Tht.  The 
i  the  Hght 
mities  like 
He  seated 
the  won- 
Tht.  The 
lim.  The 
.nd  setting 
1  of  scenes 
I  hymn  he 
le  air,  and 
and  con- 
lifted  it- 
reechoing 


And  greet  from  all  their  holv  heights 
The  dayspring  from  on  high. 
O'er  the  blue  depths  of  Galilee 
There  comes  a  holier  calm  ; 
And  Sharon  waves  in  solemn  praise 
Her  silent  groves  of  palm." 

It  was  not  alone  the  voice  of  Nature  speak- 
ing to  the  desolate  man  in  the  solemn  beauty 
of  the  night.  The  spirit  of  God  had  followed 
him  even  to  "  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth." 
A  strange  awe  came  upon  him  and  a  conscious- 
ness that  God  was  a  real,  living  Being.  He 
had  read  scores  of  times  that  "all  things  were 
made  by  Him,"  but  that  night,  in  the  midst  of 
beauty  so  unearthly,  it  was  written  in  the  skies 
and  on  the  earth.  "  The  hand  that  made  us 
is  divine."  And  then  the  words  of  i;  chant 
came  to  him  with  an  irresistible  desire  to  sing 
them.  The  sublime  grandeur  of  the  spot 
fitted  the  stately  measures  better  than  frescoed 
ceilings  and  carved  pillars.  Never  had  he 
sung  them  in  the  choir-loft  while  worshippers 
hung  upon  the  words  as  now  in  the  silence, 
the  mountain  walls  sending  back  the  echoes. 
"  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  \  e  gates,  and  be  ye 
lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors,  and  the  King  of 
glory  shall  come  in.  Who  is  this  King  of 
glory  }     The   Lord,  strong  and  mighty," 

He  went  through  the  beautiful  chant  to  the 
end,  decorously,  as  if  in  sound  of  an  audience, 

3°7 


■a '"'3* 


1-1  • 

mi 


r 


.'Ml: 


:  1  i 

i 

■t' 

;f 

1:1 ' 

ll^ 


:.  t 


^    IVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

and  there  came  to  him  for  a  brief  moment  the 
sense  of  a  majestic  Presence.  It  seemed,  in 
the  sacred  stiUness  of  that  hour,  that  there 
were  but  two  beings  in  the  universe,  God  and 
himself,  and  that  he  was  being  searched  by 
penetrative  eyes.  Never  before  had  he  ex- 
perienced so  great  a  sense  of  condemnation 
and  self-abasement.  There  came  into  his 
heart,  for  the  first  time  in  his  Hfe,  a  longing 
for  reconciliation  with  this  strong  and  mighty 
One.  Had  he  come  out  to  this  wilderness  to 
find  Him  ?  He  remembered  Aunt  Crete's 
remark,  years  ago,  that  some  people  had  to  go 
through  life  like  the  children  of  Israel,  by  way 
of  the  wilderness,  because  they  could  be  sub- 
dued in  no  other  way.  Dear  Aunt  Crete  ! 
What  would  she  say  if  she  knew  he  was  on 
the  way  to-night  through  a  veritable  wilder- 
ness ? 

These  feelings  had  for  the  time  driven  away 
the  haunting  thoughts  of  the  horrors  of  his 
situation.  He  threw  himself  down  to  rest 
among  the  branches,  with  face  upturned  to  the 
sky,  and  fell  asleep  with  this  hush  upon  his 
spirit.  How  long  he  slept  he  knew  not.  A 
fearful  sound  awakened  him.  He  knew  at 
once  that  the  loud,  shrill  scream,  like  that  of 
a  human  being  in  distress,  came  from  a  moun- 
tain lion.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  dread- 
ful voice,  for  he   iiad    heard    it   often    in    the 

308 


^^A  Land  not  Inhabited?'^ 


distance  and  been  deceived  by  it.  Now  it 
was  so  near  as  to  cause  every  nerve  to  thrill 
with  terror.  Involuntarily  he  answered  the 
yell  by  another,  intending  to  frighten  the  beast 
in  turn,  then  seizing  a  branch  of  the  tree 
sprang  lightly  into  it  and  hurriedly  scrambled 
from  limb  to  limb  as  near  the  top  as  safety 
would  allow.  The  savage  beast  was  growling 
below,  snuffing  the  boughs  which  had  formed 
Wayne's  bed  but  a  moment  before.  He  an- 
swered every  growl  of  the  lion  with  one  almost 
as  terrible,  which  seemed  to  infuriate  it  still 
more.  Terrified  beyond  measure,  Wayne  in- 
creased his  voice  to  its  utmost  volume,  while 
he  frantically  broke  branches  from  the  tree  and 
hurled  them  ?X  the  howling  creature. 

Apparently  it  was  in  vain.  It  could  not  be 
frightened  away.  To  Wayne's  horror  the  lion 
began  to  make  the  circuit  of  the  tree  us  if  to 
select  a  spot  for  springing  into  it.  Then  the 
victim  shook  the  tree  until  every  limb  rustled 
with  the  motion,  but  still  the  fearful  beast  pur- 
sued its  catlike  tread,  circling  about  the  tree, 
lashing  the  ground  with  its  tail,  and  howling 
furiously.  The  thick  branches  cast  shadows  so 
that  neither  foe  could  see  the  other,  but  when 
Wayne  heard  the  howls  on  one  side  of  the  tree, 
he  made  lightning-like  leaps  to  the  other  side, 
while  cold  chills  crept  over  him  at  thought  of 
being  torn  to  pieces  by  the  monster.     Expecting 


■ii;  m  r 


w 


w  >. 


'!;'      1 


R    I: 


ir 


M 


i       P     i  ' 


HR 


H-l 


iiiisM 


I  ?  tifl; 


I       ' 


By    JV^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

each  inc^ant  that  the  fearfu'  leap  would  be 
made,  he  tried  to  prepare  himself  for  the  con- 
flict which  he  felt  must  soon  come.  Suddenly 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  try  silence. 
Accordingly  he  clasped  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
with  both  arms  and  kept  perfectly  still. 

Meantime  the  lion  raged,  and  howled,  and 
tramped  its  circle  round,  filling  the  forest  with 
echoes  of  its  fearful  howls.  Suddenly  it  imi- 
tated the  example  of  its  victim  and  became 
silent  also.  Terrible  minutes  passed.  The 
silence  of  the  beast  was  even  more  fearful  than 
to  hear  it  crashing  through  the  brushwood, 
as  now  Wayne  did  not  know  from  what  direc- 
tion to  expect  it.  After  a  silence  that  seemed 
like  hours,  the  creature  gave  a  spring  through 
the  thicket  and  ran  screaming  away  into  the 
forest.  Wayne,  almost  fainting  from  exhaus- 
tion, climbed  down  from  the  tree,  strange  to 
say  into  his  former  bed,  and  instantly  dropped 
into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  he  did  not  awaken 
until  the  sun  was  high  the  next  day.  He  shud- 
dered when  he  recalled  the  experience  of  the 
night  before,  and  was  tempted  in  the  first  wak- 
ing moments  to  believe  it  to  have  been  only 
a  hideous  dream,  but  his  torn  clothing  and 
broken  branches  lying  about  the  tree  testified 
to  a  horrible  reality. 

He  refused  to  go  over  the  dreadful  thing  in 
imagination,  and  hastened  to  the  shore  of  the 
310 


erness. 

A'ould  be 
the  con- 
Suddenly 
y  silence. 
'  the  tree 
11. 

A^led,  and 

)rest  with 

ly  it  imi- 

i   became 

zd.     The 

Lrful  than 

ushwood, 

lat  direc- 

■t  seemed 

through 

into  the 

L  exhaus- 

ange  to 

dropped 

t  awaken 

^e  shud- 

of  the 

rst  wak- 

een  only 

ing    and 

testified 


:e 


^'A  Land  not  In  ha  hi  ted.'* 


lake  to  feast  his  eyes  again  upon  beauty  such 
as  he  had  never  looked  upon  before  in  any 
land.  The  morning  sunshine  had  brought  out 
from  their  hiding  places  the  dwellers  in  this 
favored  spot.  The  place  teemed  with  life. 
Mocking-birds  trilled  out  gay  songs,  and  flocks 
of  swans  sported  on  the  quiet  lake.  Mink  and 
beaver  swam  about  unscared,  and  soft-skinned 
otters  performed  funny  aquatic  gymnastics. 
Deer,  elk,  and  mountain  sheep  had  not  fled  at 
the  explorer's  approach,  but  gazed  upon  him 
with  wide,  innocent  eyes,  and  he  told  himself 
with  grim  humor  that  they  probably  considered 
him  one  of  their  unknown  kinsmen. 

The  hope  that  he  should  find  his  party  en- 
camped on  the  shore  of  this  lovely  lake  was 
crushed  when  he  surveyed  it  with  his  glass  and 
saw  no  signs,  and  especially  when  there  came 
no  answering  signal  to  the  shrill  whistle  that 
he  blew. 


! 


thing  in 
•e  of  the 


311 


n 


\v 


XXIII. 


1 


m 


1'' 

I?!    I  * 


■1  ; 


i 


"  /  will  fear  no  EviL'^ 

THE  next  few  hours  brought  a  marked 
change  in  the  atmosphere,  the  ther- 
mometer having  fallen  with  surprising 

rapidity.  A  storm  of  mingled  snow 
and  rain,  common  to  those  high  latitudes,  had 
set  in,  and  Wayne,  whose  clothing  was  not 
suited  to  the  cold  weather,  with  benumbed  fin- 
gers gathered  the  few  thistle  roots  that  grew 
about  there,  then  hastened  to  prepare  a  place 
of  shelter  from  the  storm.  There  was  a 
friendly  spruce  near  with  low-growing,  wide- 
spreading  limbs.  About  these  he  heaped 
other  branches  laid  thickly  together  to  keep 
out  the  winds.  When  done  it  was  a  sort  of 
wigwam  with  boughs  piled  in  one  corner  for  a 
bed.  Into  this  refuge  he  crept,  first  filling  his 
flask  with  water. 

The  delay  occasioned  by  the  stnrm  would 
make  the  prospect  of  rejoining  his  companions 
more  doubtful  than  ever.  It  began  to  be  plain 
to  him  that  if  ever  he  escaped  from  that  wil- 
derness, it  must  be  by  his  own  unaided  efforts. 

312 


Mi 


I  marked 
-he   ther- 
urprising 
ed   snow 
ides,  had 
was    not 
nbed  fin- 
lat  grew 
a  place 
was    a 
,  wide- 
heaped 
o  keep 
sort  of 
ler  for  a 
ling  his 

I  would 

panions 

)e  plain 

hat  wil- 

efforts. 


1 


I 


I 


''/  will  fear  no    Evil^ 

For  two  days  the  cast  wind  roared,  the  storm 
raged,  and  the  prisoner  in  his  house  of  spruce 
did  the  only  thing  left  to  be  done,  he  thought. 
He  went  back,  as  far  as  memory  reached,  to 
the  brightness  of  his  early  childhood.  Me 
lived  over  again  the  Sabbaths  with  his  mother, 
and  then  was  reminded  to  count  the  days  since 
his  separation  from  the  party,  and  discovered 
that  that  day  was  the  Sabbath.  To  pass  the 
time  away,  he  began  to  repeat  aloud  psalms 
and  chapters  that  he  had  learned  to  recite  to 
his  mother.  He  lingered  on  one  verse  in  the 
Twenty-third  Psalm,  "  Yea,  though  1  walk 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death 
thou  art  with  me."  The  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death  !  That  was  where  he  was  on  that 
Sabbath. 

"  I  will  fear  no  evil."  It  must  be  comfort- 
ing, he  mused,  to  have  a  faith  like  that.  If  he 
could  but  feel  that  the  Lord  was  near  now 
comforting  him,  it  would  relieve  the  desolation; 
but  he  could  not  conceive  of  himself  as  ever 
attaining  to  such  a  state.  His  mother  had 
faith,  and  Enid  had  it.  And  then  his  thoughts 
drifted  off  to  Enid.  He  could  see  her  in  church 
now  as  he  had  often  watched  her,  with  earnest 
face  upturned  to  the  preacher,  and  clear  eyes 
reflecting  the  truth  she  drank  in.  Would  she 
care  if  she  knew  of  the  terrible  ordeal  through 
which  he  was  passing .?     A  long  time  he  spent 


h\\ 


1;1  ;'' 


'it: 


Mil 


1.,     . 

1 ;  1, 

'■'        r  "  .       ' 

;i        ;. ;  1  -    : 

!   !  !■  >  '    ;    :     , 

By    ff^cJy  of  the    U^ildcrncss. 

recalling  the  scenes  of  the  hist  summer,  t)ring- 
ing  to  sound  and  sight  all  her  lovely  words  and 
ways.  Again  he  heard  her  singing  a  gay  carol 
or  the  tender  strains  of  a  hymn  sweet  and  low. 
What  a  rare  face  was  hers,  with  lovely  eyes 
sincere  and  sweet!  It  was  a  face  that  one 
would  not  meet  twice  in  a  lifetime,  not  even 
among  old  world  pictures  and  statues;  and  the 
reason  was  apparent:  it  was  not  mere  charm  of 
shape  or  color,  hut  the  lovely  character  shone 
from  her  eves  sincere  and  sweet,  and  told  of 
one  who  scorned  deceits  and  affectations,  who 
lived  not  for  her  own  pleasure,  whose  tongue 
dropped  words  of  kindness,  whose  hands  were 
helping  hands.  Had  he  lost  her  forever,  this 
white-souled  girl  ?  he  resolutely  put  away  fur- 
ther thoughts  of  her.  It  was  insupportable 
that  she  had  probably  learned  by  this  time  to 
think  of  him  as  one  beneath  her  notice.  He 
must  set  his  mind  upon  something  absorbing 
or  he  should  lose  his  reason  It  is  doubtful  if 
this  would  not  have  happened  could  he  have 
read  a  letter  Enid  received  about  that  time. 

Leon  Hamilton,  after  several  years  abroad, 
had  returned  to  his  nati^^e  land.  To  all  ap- 
pearances he  had  outgrown  youthful  follies, 
and  was  pronounced  handsome,  cultured,  genial, 
charming,  by  a  large  circle  of  friends.  He 
soon  visited  Enid's  home  to  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance with  his  mother's  old  friends.     His  man- 

314 


// 


ernes  s. 


iL-r,  l)ring- 

kvords  and 

gay  carol 

t  and  low. 

'vely  eyes 

that   one 

not  even 

;  and  the 

charm  of 

ter  shone 

d  told  of 

ions,  who 

?e  tongue 

ands  were 

•ever,  this 

away  fur- 

pportable 

;  time  to 

ce.     He 

ibsorbing 

)ubtful  if 

he  have 

time. 

abroad, 

all  ap- 

1   follies, 

d,  genial, 

ds.     He 


3 


icquamt- 
lis  man- 


'^/  will  fear  no   Evil^ 

ner  and  conversation  were  calculated  to  tlcceive 
the  very  elect.  Thoughtful,  earnest,  courteous, 
with  lofty  sentiments  on  all  moral  questions, 
Mrs.  Wilmer  was  delighted  with  him,  and  even 
Knid  could  but  feel  that  he  was  greatly  changed. 
In  anticipation  of  this  visit  he  had  studied  up 
certain  questions  from  a  Christian's  poir.t  of 
view  that  he  might  be  furnished  with  a  sort 
of  passport  to  Enid's  favor.  Thus  he  had  the 
language  of  Canaan  at  his  tongue's  end.  And 
yet  Enid's  intuitions  distrusted  him,  for  which 
she  blamed  herself  To  atone  for  this  and  to 
please  her  mother  she  consented  to  correspond 
with  him  occasionally  on  account  of  old  friend- 
ship's sake.  A  paragraph  in  a  letter  received 
from  him  ran  thus  :  — 

"  I  presume  that  you  have  heard  that  Wayne 
Pierson  has  fled  from  the  world  into  the  wilder- 
ness, joining  an  exploring  expedition  in  the  far 
West.  And  it  was  none  too  soon.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  he  was  having  trouble  on  account  of  a 
love  affair.  It  seems  that  he  has  broken  the 
heart  of  a  country  dams-^l,  literally,  for  she 
has  lately  died.  Her  father  and  mother,  natu- 
rally, are  much  stirred  up  over  it  and  have 
vowed  vengeance  upon  him. 

"  I  had  hoped  that  as  he  grew  older  he  would 
have  learned  wisdom.  Perhaps  you  are  aware 
that  love-making  is  an  old  weakness  of  his. 
He  got  into  serious  trouble  several  times  from 


v  \ 


By    Way  of  the    IVilderness, 


•>.. 


ill 


% 


\-\'  I 


that  cause  while  in  college;  seemed  to  have  no 
scruples  about  engaging  himself  to  two  or 
three  girls  at  one  time.  One  would  nev^er  sus- 
pect him  of  it,  either.  He  really  has  a  talent 
for  deception.  While  his  manner  is  most  im- 
pressively courteous  to  all  womankind,  he  yet 
assumes  something  like  indifference  toward 
them,  which  diverts  suspicion  from  him.  I 
very  much  regret  that  any  person,  even  slightly 
connected  with  me,  should  have  been  guilty  of 
so  great  a  crime  as  winning  the  affections  of  a 
young,  ignorant  girl,  merely  for  his  own  amuse- 
ment." 

The  thought  that  the  day  was  Sunday  and 
that  Enid  was  probably  in  church  sent  Wayne 
back  again  to  the  Bible.  So  would  he  be 
nearer  to  her  with  thoughts  in  harmony.  What 
would  he  not  give  for  a  Bible  now  ?  However, 
he  had  read  it  through  twice,  and  when  a  child 
had  committed  much  of  it  to  memory.  1  here 
were  whole  chapters  and  psalms  that  he  should 
never  forget,  and  scattered  passages  without 
number.  He  did  not  know  then,  and  not  until 
long  afterward  did  it  dawn  upon  him  that  the 
wise  mother  had  not  been  haphazard  in  her 
selections ;  they  really  embodied  a  system  of 
theology:  sin,  repentance,  and  peace  with  God. 
He  set  himself  now  the  task  of  recalling  every- 
thing he  knew  about  it :  the  life  in  Eden,  the 
sad  ending  of  it ;  the  sins  and  wanderings  of 
316 


^'/  will  fear  no   Evil^ 

God's  chosen  people,  their  restoration  ;  the  birth 
of  the  Redeemer  and  justification  bv  faith.  He 
knew  it  ail  intellectually  —  this  cultured  young 
man,  for  he  prized  the  Bible  as  being  rich  in  liter- 
ary lore;  but  the  mystery  of  redemption  was  to 
him  a  mystery  still.  A  fool  may  solve  it  if  he 
will,  and  a  wise  man  may  know  it  under  the  same 
conditions,  but  either  has  power  to  draw  bolts 
and  bars  so  that  ihe  spirit  will  not  enter. 

He  did  not  hurry  through  the  repetition  of 
these  as  a  schoolboy  might ;  he  stopped  to  an- 
alyze and  reflect,  and  finally  he  began  to  feel 
amazed  that  anybody  should  have  the  temerity 
to  stand  out  aoainL''.  God.  It  was  really  absurd 
for  a  poor,  weak  man  to  lift  his  head  in  defi- 
ance of  a  Being  so  strong  and  glorious.  He 
did  not  feel  self-condemiied  in  this.  He  h.ad 
always  reverenced  God.  But  after  all,  cold  rev- 
erence was  unsatisfying.  True  loyalty  meant 
more  than  this.  Had  he  during  all  these  years 
been  a  rebel }  Had  he  been  trying  to  bring 
unacceptable  sacrifices  to  the  altar  like  those 
old  Jews  whom  God  had  rejected,  declaring  to 
them  that  obedience  was  better  than  sacrifice  ? 
Really,  he  was  something  like  them.  He  hatl 
tried  to  find  favor  with  God  by  a  correct  life 
and  elevated  moral  principles,  when  he  knew  it 
had  been  written,  *'  The  sacrifices  of  Ciod  are  a 
broken  spirit"  and  a  "contrite  heart."  It  be- 
gan to  seem  like  insufferable  conceit  and  inso- 


lip  % 

H         J 

,1  : 


. 


i|! 


'm 


P 


1.5 1 


1 


■  :  1 


1        ! 


ill 


By    IV ay  of  the    IVihIcrncss. 

lence,  as  if  he  had  said  to  God  by  his  life: 
"  You  are  mistaken  in  me,  I  am  not  a  com- 
mon sinner  by  any  means  that  I  can  get  down 
and  repent.  I  have  nothing  much  to  repent 
of.  I  aim  to  be  right  and  true,  but  I  cannot 
go  further.  Your  requirements  are  too  hard 
for  me  to  comply  with,  moreover.  You  have 
said, '  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that  curse 
you,  and  pray  for  them  that  despitefully  use 
you.'  This  is  most  unreasonable  and  impossi- 
ble, and  I  cannot  and  will  not  do  it." 

It  was  appalling  ^'nt  he  had  in  effect  said 
this  to  the  great  and  mighty  God.  He  was 
now  having  his  just  deserts  in  being  left  to 
perish.  Why  had  God  not  long  ago  stricken 
him  down  in  anger?  And  then  he  remembered 
"  slow  to  anger,  long-suffering,  of  tender  mercy." 
Certainly  he  was  far  out  of  the  way.  But  where 
was  the  remedy?  He  had  not  a  contrite  heart, 
and  he  was  no  more  ready  to  forgive  his  enemies 
than  he  ever  had  been.  His  haughty  spirit,  too; 
how  couki  the  pride  ever  be  taken  out  and  he 
be  made  meek  and  lovir.,-  ^  It  was  an  utter 
impossibility,  and  yet  ho  1  :)•  p-  d  to  have  the 
favor  of  the  glorious  Lord,  su  jng  and  mighty, 
and  he  longed  to  be  made  fit  to  dwell  with  Him 
through  the  eternity  upon  which  he  might  soon 
enter. 

When  the  weary  day  had  drifted  into  the 
night,  the  heart-sick,  desolate  man  knelt  by  his 

3'8 


his  life: 
t  a  com- 
^et  down 

0  repent 

1  cannot 
too  hard 
'oil  have 
hat  curse 
fully  use 

inipossi- 

Tcct  said 

He  was 

left    to 

stricken 

em  be  red 
mercy." 

ut  where 

te  heart, 
enemies 

n-it,  too; 
and  he 

an  utter 
ave  the 
mighty, 
th  Him 
ht  soon 

nto  the 
t  by  his 


''/  will  fear  no   RvilT 

bed  of  pine  boughs.  He  had  not  bowed  his 
knee  in  private  prayer  since  he  was  a  boy,  and 
no  words  came  now,  only  an  infinite  longing, 
an  inarticulate  cry  to  the  Lord  of  all  from  one 
of  His  helpless  human  creatures  —  the  cry  of  a 
soul  who  had  come  to  know  his  poverty  and 
wretchedness,  and  now  cast  himself  down  at  the 
feet  of  the  Ruler  of  the  universe  with  a  cry  for 
mercy.  That  was  as  far  as  he  could  reach  then. 
He  had  read  and  reread  of  Jesus  Christ  the 
Saviour;  but  the  blessed  way  of  deliverance 
was  as  yet  hidden  from  his  eyes  —  so  hard 
is  it  for  the  wise  to  understand  the  way  of 
salvation. 

The  next  morning  the  sky  was  still  gray,  but 
there  was  a  lull  in  the  storm,  and  the  traveller, 
benumbed  with  cold,  rose  early,  and  started  in 
the  direction  of  a  group  of  hot  springs  that 
were  steaming  in  the  distance  under  the  shadow 
of  a  mountain.  It  was  not  long  though  before 
the  storm  set  in  again  with  renewed  force.  Wet 
and  chilled  through  by  the  time  he  reached 
the  place,  the  warmth  of  the  incrusted  sand  was 
most  grateful.  When  warmed  through  he 
took  a  survey  of  his  new  quarters,  and  selected 
a  spot  between  two  springs  near  together. 
There  by  the  aid  of  his  knife,  a  priceless  treas- 
ure, he  built  another  bower  of  pine  branches, 
carpeted  it  with  small,  fine  ones,  made  a  bed  of 
the  same,  and  prepared  to  stow  himself  away 

3^9 


i^!'    ' 


i; 


IllSi 


b 


^■r 


mi 


i. 


ti. 


ii 


Hi 


By    JVay  of  the    IVilderness. 

for  a  long  rest,  for  he  had  hcii  J  that  these 
storms  sometimes  lasted  several  days. 

Thistles  grew  all  about  his  new  abode,  and 
in  convenient  reach  was  a  small,  round,  boiling 
spring  which  he  called  his  dinner  pot.  In  an 
obscure  pocket  he  fortunately  discovered  a 
small  ball  of  twine,  so,  tying  his  roots  in 
bunches,  he  suspended  them  in  the  bubbling 
pot  Nature  had  provided.  When  thoroughly 
cooked  they  were  really  quite  palatable.  With 
warmth  and  food  he  could  be  almost  comforta- 
ble, except  for  the  fear  of  wild  beasts;  but  while 
the  storm  lasted,  the  danger  from  them  would 
not  be  so  great.  During  several  days  of  im- 
prisonment he  employed  much  of  his  time  in 
cooking,  and  writing  in  his  note-book.  The 
chirography  was  microscopical,  for  paper  was 
limited ;  but  there  were  notes  on  the  scenery, 
the  trials  and  pleasures  of  the  journey,  his 
thoughts  about  different  things,  and  his  adven- 
tures. Any  employment  was  delightful.  If 
paper  had  been  more  abundant,  he  would  have 
written  a  book.  Fie  even  sighed  for  an  axe 
that  he  might  chop  trees  —  anything  to  make 
the  leaden  hours  go  faster. 

When  all  else  was  done  he  could  think. 
There  was  no  limit  to  that  nor  to  the  pleasures 
of  memory,  thanks  to  an  unusual  gift  in  that 
line.  He  enriched  his  solitude  by  recalling 
some  of  the  books  he  had  read:  history,  poetry, 
320 


erness, 

lat    these 

3. 

)ode,  and 
d,  boiling 
:.     In  an 
overed   a 
roots    in 
bubbling 
oroughly 
^     With 
omforta- 
3ut  while 
m  would 
s  of  im- 
1  time  in 
c.     The 
per  was 
scenery, 
iiey,  his 

adven- 
^ul.  If 
lid  have 

an  axe 


iasures 
m  that 
Icalling 


^'/  will  fear  no   EvilT 

and  fiction.  He  revisited  picture  galleries  in 
foreign  lands,  and,  being  one  who  can  vividly 
liring  past  scenes  back  to  him,  he  revelled  again 
in  treasures  of  art,  painting,  and  sculpture. 
Among  others  he  vividly  recalled  a  face  of  the 
Christ  painted  by  the  one  man  who  has  ever 
caught  a  satisfying  glimpse  of  what  we  love  co 
think  the  face  of  the  Master  must  have  been 
like,  the  one  pictured  face  that  unites  sweetness 
v/ith  divine  dignity,  and  infinite  tenderness  with 
power  and  majesty.  He  lingered  long  on  it, 
and  passages  of  Scripture  concerning  the  man, 
Christ  Jesus,  the  Redeemer,  came  to  him  and 
interpreted  themselves  in  the  light  of  that  face. 
"  He  was  a  man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with 
grief"  "  He  was  led  as  a  lamb  to  the  slaugh- 
ter." "  He  was  oppressed,  and  He  was  af- 
flicted; yet  He  opened  not  His  mouth."  "The 
Lord  hath  laid  on  Him  the  iniquities  of  us  all." 
Yes,  it  was  all  there:  the  sadness,  the  self- 
abnegation,  and  self-repression.  And  there, 
too,  was  the  power  and  the  purity  which  made 
hypocrisy  and  uncleanness  slink  away  at  nis 
rebuke.  How  easy  to  imagine  Him  with  that 
face  of  tender  pity  saying,  "  Come  unto  Me,  all 
ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will 
give  you  rest."  "  Him  that  cometh  unto  Me, 
I  will  in  no  wase  cast  out."  Passage  after  pas- 
sage came  to  his  mind,  and  then,  little  by  little, 
the  story  told  itself     At  last  it  all  loomed  up 

321 


i::  '' 


'  ii' 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderncss. 


I  ■     ! 


t 


ihM: 


.  \ 


before  him.  The  way  to  God  was  through 
Christ,  the  atoning  sacrifice  for  our  sins.  The 
ransom  had  been  paid.  The  gift  of  eternal  life 
was  held  out  to  all  who  would  receive  it^  and 
become  loyal  subjects  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 
He  saw  it  clep.rly  now.  How  blind  and  stupid 
he  had  been  that  he  had  not  seen  it  long  before  ! 
He  reflected  though  that  since  he  had  grown 
to  manhood  the  years  had  been  given  to  hurry- 
ing up  and  down  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge. 
Never  had  he  spent  two  consecutive  hours  on 
"  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world."  "  The  truth 
shall  make  vou  free."  If  a  soul  cannot  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  truth,  how  then  shall 
it  be  saved  ?  Although  no  light  from  heaven 
shone  round  about  him  as  blazed  about  Saul 
of  Tarsus,  the  light  came  into  his  heart,  and  he 
looked  into  the  face  of  the  Christ  and  saw  there 
pity  and  forgiveness  before  he  had  asked  for 
it.  And  then  there  rushed  over  him  a  crush- 
ing sense  of  unworthiness,  of  condemnation, 
of  black  ingratitude,  and  insolent  rebellion. 
Again  he  knelt  in  prayer,  and  this  time  there 
were  words,  and  tears,  and  repentings.  He 
made  no  compact  with  the  Lord  that  if  He 
would  deliver  him  from  the  wilderness  he 
would  serve  Him  all  the  days  of  his  life.  He 
had  not  thought  of  his  own  misery ;  it  was  so 
wonderful  that  he  was  really  talking  with  Jesus 
Christ  who  seemed  near  him.  And  he  made 
322 


mess. 

through 
IS.     The 
ernal  life 
e  it,  and 
s  Christ, 
id  stupid 
2  before ! 
d  grown 
to  hurry- 
owledge. 
Iiours  on 
1ie  truth 
in not  be 
hen  shall 
1  heaven 
[out  Saul 
t,  and  he 
aw  there 
sked  for 
a  crush- 
m  nation, 
ebellion. 
ne  there 
^s.     He 
t  if  He 
less    he 
e.     He 
t  was  so 
th  Jesus 
le  made 


(4 


/  will  fear  no   Evil. 


95 


no  promises.  He  confessed  his  sin,  declarmg 
his  bankruptcy,  and  then  cast  himself  into  the 
arms  of  his  Saviour  to  do  with  as  He  would. 
He  had  not  the  least  idea  that  he  had  not  onlv 
come  to  Christ  in  the  most  acceptable  way,  but 
had  taken  a  long  stride  into  the  religious  life. 

Some  one  wise  in  soul  lore  has  said,  "  What 
Christ  is  to  us  depends  upon  what  we  are  will- 
ing to  be  to  Him." 

When  this  wanderer  in  the  wilderness,  deso- 
late, with  spirit  subdued  and  humbled,  had  cast 
himself  upon  Christ  with  the  abandon  of  a  child, 
God  honored  the  simple  faith  and  revealed  Christ 
as  a  forgiving  Saviour.  The  troubled  soul  took 
Him  at  His  word,  and  forgot  cold  and  hunger 
and  loneliness  in  this  strange  experience.  His 
heart  sprang  up  to  meet  his  Master  and  to  pledge 
life-long  allegiance.  In  the  ardor  of  his  joy  he 
longed  to  do  something  for  Him.  He  would 
be  His  slave  —  anything.  He  had  attained  to 
an  experience  which  many  reach  only  after  years 
of  struggle.  Why  should  it  not  be  so?  The 
blessing  waits  only  for  conditions  to  be  fulfilled. 

*'  When  the  Comforter  is  come  He  shall 
teach  you  all  things,  and  bring  all  things  to 
your  remembrance,  whatsoever  I  have  said  unto 
you."  And  sweetly  was  this  promise  verified 
to  the  young  man  during  those  days  of  im- 
prisonment. Texts  long-forgotten  came  to 
strengthen    faith    and    deepen    trust.       It    was 


WW 


h  m 


i 


N 


II 

li 


I 


:i: 


i  ' 


i  i 


lit      ; 


lii 


f ! 


By    Jf^ay  of  the    JVildcrness. 

precious,  too,  when  night  came,  to  kneel  and 
ask  projection,  believing  that  now  Jehovah, 
King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords,  the  Crea- 
tor and  Ruler  of  the  earth,  was  in  Christ  a 
living,  loving  Friend  lighting  the  gloom.  And 
it  brought  sweet  assurance  as  he  stretched  him- 
self on  his  bed  of  pine  boughs  to  remember 
words  like  these:  — 

"  I  will  both  lay  me  down  in  peace  and  sleep, 
for  thou.  Lord,  only  makest  me  to  dwell  in 
safety."  "  The  angel  of  the  Lord  encampeth 
round  about  them  that  fear  Him,  and  deliver- 
eth  them." 

And  he  did  lay  him  down  and  sleep,  though 
the  voice  of  the  wolf  and  the  mountain  lion 
might  often  be  heard  in  the  distance.  The 
One  who  created  them  was  his  defender  now, 
and  if  they  came  and  did  their  worst,  death 
was  not  the  terrible  thing  it  had  once  seemed 
to  be.  Indeed,  most  things  looked  different, 
novv'  that  he  had  a  tender,  grateful  heart.  He 
remembered  his  escape  from  the  paws  of  the 
lion,  and  thanked  God  that  His  protecting  care 
had  been  about  him  and  delivered  him  in  that 
strange,  unexpected  way.  Then,  too,  he  had 
been  guided  to  the  hot  springs  during  the  cold 
storm,  or  he  must  have  perished  —  another  in- 
stance of  the  kind  care  over  him.  And  now 
a  wonderful  thing  had  come  to  pass.  He  had 
learned  to  say,  "  I  will  fear  no  evil." 

324 


'mess. 


neel  and 
Jehovah, 
:he  Crea- 
Christ  a 
im.  And 
hed  him- 
emember 

ind  sleep, 

dwell  in 

ncampeth 

d  deliver- 

p,  though 
11  tain  lion 
ice.     The 
ider  now, 
•St,  death 
e  seemed 
different, 
;art.     He 
vs  of  the 
cting  care 
n  in  that 
he  had 
the  cold 
1  other  in- 
And  now 
He  had 


XXIV. 

A   Weary    Way, 

DURING  some  of  the  time  of  his  im- 
prisonment, Wayne  had  racked  his 
brain  in  contriving  means  for  mak- 
ing himself  more  comfortable.  With 
the  aid  of  his  pocket  knife  and  the  invaluable 
ball  of  twine,  he  mended  his  clothes.  It  v'-.s 
a  pitiful  sight :  the  man  with  an  elegant  ward- 
r*obe  and  large  bank  account,  repairing  tattered 
garments  by  punching  I  oles  in  each  side  of  a 
rent  and  lacmg  it  together  with  twine ;  and 
then  in  a  painstaking  way  trying  to  fashion 
a  fish-hook  from  a  pin,  and  rigging  out  a 
sapling  for  a  fish-pole,  afterward  standing  a 
weary  while  on  the  shore  to  catch  a  few  little 
fishes.  No  morsel  was  ever  sweeter,  though, 
than  they,  when  cooked  in  the  boiling  spring. 

Nothing  gave  Wayne  more  concern  than  the 
want  of  fire,  for  he  felt  that  wirhout  it  he  could 
not  hope  to  endure  many  storms  like  the  one 
he  had  been  through;  besides,  it  gave  cheer 
and  comfort  and  safety  in  the  night. 

The  very  day  the  storm  abated  and  the  sun 


I'      ;! 


;! 

i*:! 

if 


m 


ni^ 


1  ;;:  i" 


H  I 


V :  ■  i 


;ci: 


^    If^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

once  more  appeared  in  the  sky,  Wayne  stood 
on  the  beach  watching  the  clouds  break  and 
drift  away.  As  the  sunlight  flashed  on  the 
waters  of  the  lake  it  also  Hashed  an  idea  into 
his  mind,  which  was,  that  the  lens  of  his  field 
glass  would  bring  fire  from  heaven.  He  tried 
the  experiment  at  once,  and  trembled  with  ex- 
citement when  he  saw  the  smoke  curl  from  a 
bit  of  dry  wood  in  his  fingers.  Joy  !  joy  !  he 
had  fire  once  more.  He  thanked  God  and 
took  courage. 

And  now  he  was  obliged  to  be  most  indus- 
trious, fishing  and  gathering  thistle  roots  in 
preparation  for  continuing  his  journey.  He 
dried  the  fish  and  dried  some  of  the  thistle 
roots,  cooking  others.  It  cost  him  a  pang  to 
think  of  leaving  his  comfortable  quarters.  The 
spot  was  growing  dear  to  him.  Nevertheless, 
he  bade  it  a  final  farewell,  and  started  once  more 
on  his  journey  with  renewed  courage,  in  the 
direction  which  he  still  faintly  hoped  might 
lead  to  the  encampment  of  the  rest  of  the 
party. 

As  he  walked  and  mused  he  fell  to  imagin- 
ing their  conjectures  concerning  him  and  what 
means  they  were  taking  for  his  rescue.  The 
belief  that  they  were  surely  searching  for  him 
was  comforting.  He  surmised,  too,  that  some 
of  the  party  might  retrace  their  steps  to  civili- 
zation and  secure  the  aid  of  experienced  men, 
326 


ih  i 


'•'■'tl 


mess. 

le  stood 
eak  and 
on  the 
dea  into 
his  field 
Ht  tried 
with  ex- 
l  from  a 
joy !  he 
jod  and 

St  indus- 
roots  in 
ey.  He 
e  thistle 
pang  to 
rs.  The 
irtheless, 
ice  more 
in  the 
might 
of  the 

mi  agin - 
nd  what 
The 
for  him 
at  some 
o  civili- 
id  men, 


J   JVcary    JFay, 


%\ 


e. 


thoroughly  armed  and  inured  to  che  hardships 
of  life  on  the  frontier.  Macfarlan,  he  knew, 
would  leave  no  stone  unturned  for  his  deliver- 
ance. His  father,  too,  would  be  informed  ;  his 
later  kindlier  judging  of  his  tather  assured  him 
that  everything  possible  for  his  rescue  would 
be  attempted.  As  for  Aunt  Crete,  she  would 
arouse  the  whole  country  as  far  as  in  her  lay, 
and  sell  the  house  from  over  her  head,  if  nec- 
essary, to  save  him.  And  this  reminded  him 
that  he  must  write  Aunt  Crete  about  the 
wonderful  change  that  had  come  to  him  there 
on  the  wild  shores  of  the  beautiful  lake,  and 
how  her  warning,  spoken  long  ago  to  the  boy, 
had  been  prophetic. 

He  almost  regretted  now  that  he  had  sent 
her  a  letter  just  before  he  hid  set  out  on  the 
expedition,  telling  her  of  his  purpose.  What 
cruel  anxieties  she  had  suffered  already  and 
would  suffer!  At  least,  there  was  one  person 
on  the  earth  whose  prayers  in  his  behalf  were 
strong  and  fervent.  Was  there  another .?  Did 
Knid  remember  him  in  that  way  ^  It  would 
lighten  his  burden  if  he  could  bui:  be  assured 
of  it.  He  was  almost  sure  that  his  name  came 
into  her  prayers  in  one  way,  as  we  ask  sadly 
tor  a  wandering  one  that  he  may  be  reclaimed 
and  saved,  but  that  was  different  from  agonized 
petitions  for  those  we  love  as  our  lives.  No, 
there  was  but  one  that  he  could  be   sure   of. 


i  I 


I!  ' 


M 


';!,? 


lil : 


'1 1 


!■  n' 


i;l 


^    //^^  <9/^  //;t'    IVilderness. 

who  thus  bore  him  on  her  love  before  the 
Lord. 

He  sat  down  on  a  log  and  began  the  letter 
in  his  note-book,  that  perchance  might  some 
day  reach  her — how,  he  could  not  now  tell. 
Perhaps  he  might  be  rescued,  just  as  he  was 
cit  the  end ;  then  pitying  strangers  would  take 
the  message  from  his  limp  body  and  send  it 
on  its  way. 

The  letter  was  not  quite  finished  when  he 
became  aware  of  a  change  in  the  atmosphere. 
There  was  a  chill  northeast  wind  blowing.  He 
must  have  a  fire.  He  examined  the  torch 
which  he  carried  with  him,  but  there  was  not 
even  one  smoulderi  '\  spark  of  life.  He 
brought  out  his  le  lul  touch-wood  ;  alas  ! 
there  was  no  sun,  and  the  sky  was  overcast 
with  heavy  clouds.  A  fire  was  impossible. 
Hours  passed  and  he  waited  for  the  sun  :  it 
came  not,  but  night,  dark  and  cold  and  dis- 
mal, came.     In  distress  he  looked  about  him. 

It  was  a  bare,  open  place,  a  bleak  hillside 
with  a  few  scattered  pinjs ;  and  it  was  all  the 
shelter  he  could  find.  Through  the  long  night 
he  could  keep  from  freezing  only  by  brisk  walk- 
ing up  and  down,  clapping  his  hands,  and  strik- 
ing his  benumbed  feet  against  a  log.  When 
daylight  appeared  with  a  still  clouded  sky,  he 
decided  to  carry  out  a  resolution  made  during 
the  longest,  most  terrible  night  of  his  life.    He 

328 


mess. 


A    11  \\iry    J 1 7y/, 


ore 


the 


le  letter 
It  some 
low  tell. 

he  was 
nld  take 

send  it 

A'hen  he 
osphere. 
ig.     He 
he  torch 
was  not 
e.       He 
1  ;    alas  ! 
overcast 
possible, 
sun  :   it 
nd  dis- 
ut  him. 
hillside 
all  the 
ig  night 
k  walk- 
id  strik- 
When 
sky,  he 
during 
fe.    He 


started  back  to  his  comfortable  quarters  by  the 
lake  and  hot  springs. 

It  was  a  tiresome  way  back,  but  the  delicious 
warmth  was  most  grateful  to  his  half-frozen 
frame.  Now,  he  must  wait  two  or  three  days 
to  recover  from  the  effects  of  the  nigi.t  of 
exposure. 

This  further  delay  took  away  the  last  shred 
of  hope  of  meeting  with  his  companions,  and 
he  set  to  work  to  make  plans  without  reference 
to  such  an  event.  Either  of  three  directions 
that  he  might  take  would  effect  his  escape  if 
strength  lasted.  Accordingly,  he  drew  upon 
the  '  and  of  the  beach  a  map  of  these  several 
courses  with  reference  to  making  the  lake  a 
starting-point,  and  set  himself  down  to  con- 
sider. 

One  course  was  to  follow  a  certain  river  a 
distance  of  a  hundred  miles  or  more,  but  that 
was  through  a  desolate  region  subject  to  up- 
heavals and  floods. 

Another  was  to  cross  the  country  and  scale 
a  range  of  mountains.  And  the  other  to  re- 
trace his  steps  over  the  long  and  weary  way 
by  which  he  had  entered  the  wilderness.  The 
route  by  the  mountain  range  was  much  the 
shortest,  and  he  decided  upon  venturing  upon 
it. 

Again  laying  in  a  supply  of  food,  he  started 
once  more  from  the  place  that  had  begun  to 

329 


;;  i;. 


I 


■  »•■ 

r. 


1  i 
1 

L 

f 

■  } 

'  i 

■  { * 

;  t  ■ 

1 

i 

By    If^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

seem  like  home,  and  this  time  he  felt  sure  that 
he  was  leaving  it  forever. 

That  day's  journey  carried  him  into  appar- 
ently impenetrable  wilds.  At  noon  the  sun 
came  out  long  enough  to  give  him  fire,  and  he 
kept  a  brand  alive  all  the  rest  of  the  day  by 
waving  it  to  and  fro,  sometimes  blistering  his 
fingers  by  the  sparks. 

Toward  night  he  kindled  a  fire  in  the  only 
clear  space  to  be  found.  Never  since  his  jour- 
ney began  had  he  been  in  so  dense  a  growth  of 
pines.  The  weird  light  of  the  fire  revealed  on 
all  sides  a  compact  and  unending  growth  of 
trunks  of  trees  with  a  canopy  of  dark  foliage. 
Wayne  was  actually  homesick  for  the  lovely 
lake  and  the  comfortable  bed  in  the  warm  sand. 
The  bowlings  of  fierce  beasts  seemed  more  hor- 
rible there  in  that  shut-in  wildncss.  All  sorts 
of  spectral  shapes  disturbed  his  fitful  slumbers. 
Visions  of  a  pack  of  yelping  wolves  grinned  at 
him  across  the  fire,  and  a  fearful  monster  of 
the  forest  glared  at  him  from  the  thicket  with 
fixed,  fiery  eyes. 

At  last  the  victim  of  nervous  fancies  took 
himself  in  hand,  sat  straight  up  and  looked 
about  him.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  leap- 
ing flames  lighting  up  dark  masses  of  foliage,  and 
tree-trunks  straight  and  tall,  tier  on  tier.  He 
remembered  the  word  of  his  Lord  :  "  Lo,  I  am 
with  you  always."     "  I  will  never  leave   thee 


A    IVeary    JVay. 


nor  forsake  thee."  And  then,  in  audible  words, 
he  asked  the  Lord  Jesus  to  abide  with  him  that 
night,  and  keep  liim,  as  He  had  promised,  "  from 
fear  of  evil."  The  dark  fancies  were  exorcised, 
and  he  lay  down  to  sweet  sleep.  l^Vom  that 
time  on  he  was  not  lonely  nor  nervous. 

One  walked  beside  him  with  whom  he  talked 
as  friend  with  friend,  and  each  night  he  lay 
down  secure  in  His  care. 

Another  day  of  toilsome  travel  over,  steep 
ascents  amid  the  tree  tops  brought  him  in  sight 
of  the  Yellowstone  Lake,  from  w  hence  he  must 
cross  the  country  to  the  mountain  range  ;  that 
scaled,  he  could  easily  reach  the  settlements  in 
the  valley. 

Buoyed  up  by  this  hope  he  pushed  on,  and 
toward  sunset  reached  a  lofty  headland  jutting 
into  the  lake,  and  commanding  a  magnificent 
prospect  of  mountains  and  valleys  over  an  im- 
mense nrea.  Facing  him,  in  the  clear  blue  of 
the  horizon,  rose  arrowy  peaks  in  the  far  dis- 
tance. There  were  mountains  to  left,  to  right, 
above  him,  stretching  away  in  picturesque  gran- 
deur, or  majestic  in  lofty  domes.  It  was  a  vast 
and  wondrous  panorama  spread  out  before  him, 
a  grand  enclosure  of  lake  and  mountains  with 
ravines,  gorges,  and  geysers.  The  mineral 
deposits  of  the  latter  had  covered,  with  a  hard, 
white  floor,  many  square  miles  of  the  valleys, 
and  built  up  craters  around  the  springs.     Vari- 


\\ 


I-  ■'! 


I 

"X      1 

i-' 

!'  ; 


I  ; 


•  I. 


I    .  ■'     !     '     • 


i 

•  'i  is  :'  . 

v 

)       w 

1 ,  ■i'  '< 

1 

M*  J  ^      '    \ 

i  1  i  1 

Nil- 

1; 

i  !    » 
;   <  .  « 1 

1  :^:i 

i 

'1 

if 

1  .,.., 

'.          1 

■1. 

By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

ous  other  springs  containing  different  mineral 
deposits  had  stained  the  pure  white  of  the  wide 
whiteness  with  bright  bands  of  color.  There 
were  deep  canons  composed  of  volcanic  rocks, 
gorgeous  with  rich  coloring ;  red,  yellov/,  and 
purple  set  off  against  the  dark  green  of  the  for- 
ests, and  the  white  foam  of  the  tempestuous 
river  hurrying  through  the  bottom  of  the 
chasm. 

The  sun,  low  in  the  west,  glinted  here  and 
there,  and  lighted,  to  wondrous  brilliancy,  the 
jagged  rocks  and  deepened  sombre  shadows. 

It  was  magnificent!     It  was  marvellous! 

Again  Wayne  forgot  hunger,  suffering,  deso- 
lation, everything  but  exquisite  delight,  in  gaz- 
ing upon  the  wondrous  scene. 

There  was  a  sense  of  exultation  that  it  was 
his  God,  his  Father,  Friend,  and  Saviour,  who 
had  fashioned  this  glorious  world.  He  drew 
nearer  to  Him  on  this  mount  of  transfiguration 
and  poured  out  his  heart  in  adoring  worship. 

Then  he  hastened  to  light  his  torch  at  the 
sun's  last  rays,  and  clamber  down  this  rocky 
descent  to  the  shore  of  the  lake. 

It  was  difficult  and  dangerous,  but  in  his  ex- 
alted mood  he  did  not  feel  it  to  be  so.  This 
continued  while  he  wandered  along  the  beach 
to  gather  wood  for  the  night.  With  thankful- 
ness he  lay  down  to  rest  at  last  near  a  cheerful 
fire,  and  fell  asleep  to  the  lullaby  of  the  waves. 


mess. 

mineral 

the  wide 

There 

ic  rocks, 

ov/,  and 

the  for- 
pestuous 

of    the 

lere  and 
.ncy,  the 
dows. 
ous! 

ig,  deso- 
;,  in  gaz- 

it  it  was 
)ur,  who 
le  drew 
gu  ration 
rship. 

at  the 
IS  rocky 

his  ex- 
This 
beach 
lankful- 
cheerful 
waves. 


A    JVeary    IVay. 


Being  quite  sure  that  his  party  had  encamped 


ncam 
mor 


inj 


along  this  lake,  he  set  out  in  the 
buoyed  up  by  the  hope  of  finding  food  which 
they  had  left  for  him.  He  made  good  prog- 
ress in  his  journey,  by  noon  struck  a  trail,  and 


not  1 


onj 


after 


came  upon  siens 


ipoi 


that 


made  his 


heart  throb  with  hope  and  fear.  Evidently 
they  had  been  there.  He  searched  eagerly  for 
food  in  the  ground  and  in  the  trees,  but  found 
none.  Neither  was  there  any  notice  to  apprise 
him  of  their  movements.  Why,  why  had  they 
not  remembered  him  ?  Perhaps  it  was  some 
other  party  who  had  encamped  there.  He 
should  try  to  think  so,  at  least.  The  only  evi- 
dences that  civiHzed  man  had  ever  visited  the 
spot  were  found  in  a  fork  and  a  tin  can.  Of 
these  he  thankfully  took  possession.  The  fork 
would  be  useful  in  digging  roots,  and  the  can 
could  serve  as  a  cooking  utensil  —  when  he 
had  anything  to  cook. 

The  disappointment  of  finding  no  food  was 
made  up  to  him  a  few  hours  afterward.  He 
had  built  his  campfire  for  the  night,  when  he 
discovered  something  lying  on  the  ground  not 
far  away,  which  proved  to  be  a  bird  with  a 
broken  wing.  It  was  soon  killed  and  dressed, 
and  placed  in  the  tin  can  to  be  cooked,  making, 
what  the  half-starved  traveller  called,  a  most  de- 
licious soup.  The  condiments  to  which  he  was 
accustomed  were  lacking,  but  never  had  any- 

333 


>\ 


i 


'  ■  ii:  /■ 


It   A 

Mi 


'.     !      I 


By    Way  of  the    Wilderness. 

thing  been  more  relished,  and  he  lay  down  to 
sleep  with  a  pleasant  feeling  that  the  Lord 
Himself  had  sent  him  food,  even  as  He  sent  it 
to  His  other  children  long  ago  in  the  wilderness. 
It  was  a  monotonous  life,  and  yet  it  had  its 
excitements  and  adventures.  When  clamber- 
ing a  steep  hillside  one  day,  he  became  ex- 
hausted and  lay  down  in  the  sage  brush  to 
sleep  for  a  few  minutes.  Awaking,  he  fastened 
his  belt,  and  hurriedly  pursued  his  journey. 
As  night  drew  near,  he  selected  a  camping 
place,  gathered  wood  into  a  deep  heap,  and  felt 
for  his  glass  to  procure  fire  before  the  sun 
should  set.  The  glass  was  gone !  And  with 
it  hope  was  gone.  He  lay  down  in  the  brush- 
wood and  drew  some  branches  over  him  con- 
vinced that  the  end  would  soon  come.  While 
he  lay  there  with  his  misery  rolling  over  him 
like  a  flood,  he  tried  to  think  calmly  and  recall 
every  step  of  his  journey  that  day.  Soon  it 
flashed  upon  his  mind  that  the  glass  had  prob- 
ably slipped  from  his  belt  when  he  lay  down  to 
sleep  on  the  hillside.  He  arose  at  once  and 
began  the  weary  journey  back,  a  walk  of  per- 
haps five  miles  over  the  hills.  Never  had  he 
been  more  overjoyed  than  the  next  morning 
when  he  came  to  the  spot  where  he  had  slept, 
and  found  the  glass  glittering  in  the  sun. 
There  was  not  money  enough  in  the  whole 
world  to  buy  that  glass  from  him. 

334 


rness. 

down  to 
le    Lord 
e  sent  it 
Iderness. 
\.  had  its 
clamber- 
:ame  ex- 
)rush   to 
fastened 
journey, 
camping 
,  and  felt 
the    sun 
^nd  with 
le  brush- 
lim  con- 
While 
»ver  him 
nd  recall 
Soon  it 
id  prob- 
down  to 
ice  and 
of  per- 
had  he 
norning 
d  slept, 
tie    sun. 
whole 


A   IVeary    JVay. 


Another  thrilling  experience  came  a  few 
nights  later.  While  the  tired  wanderer  slept 
soundly  amid  pine  branches,  he  was  awakened 
by  the  snapping  and  crackling  of  burning  foli- 
age, so  near  him  that  he  felt  its  hot  breath  on 
his  face.  He  sprang  up  quickly  to  discover 
that  the  forest  trees  nearest  the  campfire  were 
in  a  broad  sheet  of  flame  which  had  crept  along 
to  his  pine  bower,  and  aroused  him  none  too 
soon,  for  the  fire  was  rapidly  spreading  in  a 
circle  about  his  resting  place.  Let  us  quote 
from  his  note-book. 

"  The  grandeur  of  the  burning  forest  sur- 
passes description.  Imagine  an  immense  sheet 
of  flame  following  to  their  tops  the  lofty  trees 
of  an  almost  impenetrable  pine  forest,  leaping 
madly  from  top  to  top,  and  sending  thousands 
of  forked  tongues  hundreds  of  feet  athwart 
the  midnight  darkness.  It  was  marvellous  to 
witness  the  flashlike  rapidity  with  whic!\  the 
flames  would  mount  the  loftiest  trees.  The 
roaring,  crackling,  crashing,  and  snapping  of 
falling  hmbs  and  burning  foliage  was  deafen- 
ing. .  .  .  Afar  up  the  wood-crowned  heights 
the  overtopping  hills  shot  forth  pinnacles  and 
streamers  of  arrowy  fire,  the  entire  hillside  being 
an  ocean  of  glowing  and  surging  fiery  billows." 

As  soon  as  it  was  day,  Wayne  hastened  to 
leave  the  desolated  spot  with  blackened,  naked 
trunks  ranged  about  like  spectres,  and  started 

335 


if' Hi;! 


1  ' 


Ml 


i ,  '  I 


'!■■'      I  1 


By    Pt^ay  of  the    JVilderness. 

to  follow  the  trail  of  the  party  who  had  been  in 
camp,  whoever  they  were.  The  traces  were  but 
fiiint  though,  and  after  pursuing  a  course  by  the 
lake  for  a  time,  seemed  to  turn  and  go  back- 
ward, and  then  beccme  confused.  He  aban- 
doned it  finally,  and  resolved  to  follow  no  more 
trails,  but  select,  for  a  landmark,  the  lowest 
notch  in  the  range  of  mountains  which  he  had 
before  propo^cu  to  cross.  All  the  day  long  he 
struggled  over  rocky  hills,  through  thickets 
and  matted  forests,  with  the  goal  ever  in  view. 
As  he  advanced,  it  seemed  to  recede.  On  he 
went,  still  another  day,  bracing  up  his  courage 
with  the  thought  that,  if  once  he  found  a  pass 
through  that  mountain  barrier,  it  would  mean 
hope,  and  friends,  and  life,  perhaps. 

Long  before  he  arrived  at  the  base  of  the 
range  and  eagerly  scanned  its  possibilities  it 
began  to  grow  into  a  cruel  disappointment : 
an  endless  succession  of  inaccessible  peaks  and 
precipices,  rearing  themselves  thousands  of  feet 
defiant  and  grim  above  the  plain  as  far  as  eye 
could  reach.  To  scale  them  was  impossible. 
A  wave  of  despair  seized  him  as  he  seated  him- 
self on  a  rock  commanding  an  extensive  view. 
He  cast  his  eyes  over  the  route  by  which  he 
had  come  and  the  onlv  one  that  now  seemed 
practicable  for  ever  getting  out.  Could  he  re- 
trace his  steps  over  that  labyrinth  of  mountain 
and  forest,  and  have  had  his  two  days'  journey 


i  1  i  I 


A   JVeary    IVay. 


% 


in  vain,  or  should  he  persist  in  trying  to  find  a 
pass  over  the  mountains  ? 

Why  had  he  been  allowed  to  so  wr^ste  his 
strength  when  he  had  cast  himself  on  the  Lord 
and  asked  His  protection  ?  And  then  the  old 
enemy,  who  can  even  find  n  soul  in  the  wilder- 
ness, smiled.  It  is  ever  a  sweet  sound  to  him 
to  hear  a  saint  find  fault  with  his  Lord. 

No  sooner  had  the  evil  suggestion  come  to 
this  sore  heart  beset  on  every  side,  than  an- 
other question  forced  itself  upon  him.  Had 
he  ever  asked  God  to  point  out  to  him  the 
way  out  of  this  wilderness  ?  Never.  He  had 
acted  as  if  that  were  too  hard  a  thing  for  Him 
to  do.  The  eye  of  God  looked  down  upon 
this  trackless  wild  continually ;  the  paths  were 
all  plain  to  Him.  How  strange  that  one  who 
oelieved  this  h;  d  not  thought  to  ask  for  guid- 
ance before. 

He  knelt  do^,/n  on  the  rock  at  once,  and  in 
simple  words  and  strong  faith  asked  to  have 
the  way  clearly  pointed  out  to  him. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  considering  whether 
to  remain  and  search  for  a  pass  over  the 
mountain,  or  return  by  the  way  he  had 
come. 

Half-awake  and  utterly  worn  out,  he  experi- 
enced one  of  those  strange  hallucinations  that 
sometimes  come  to  wearv  nerves.  A  man 
with  a  strong,  kind  face  seemed  suddenly  to 

337 


n 


\}l       i- 


It 


lUi 


.11  ij 

iti  ^ 


'I' 


II 


! 


t 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

appear  before  him,  and  say  with  a  voice  and 
manner  of  authority  :  — 

"  Go  back  at  once  as  rapidly  as  possible. 
There  is  no  food  here,  and  the  idea  of  scal- 
ing those  rocks  is  madness." 

"  But,"  said  Wayne,  "  it  is  too  far.  I  can 
never  live  to  go  through  it  again." 

"  You  must,"  his  visitor  answered ;  "  it  is 
your  only  chance.     Start  now." 

"  My  friend,  whoever  you  are,"  protested 
Wayne,  "  I  doubt  the  wisdom  of  your  advice. 
Just  over  the  mountain,  a  few  miles  away,  I 
shall  find  friends.  My  clothes  are  in  tatters. 
My  strength  is  almost  gone.  I  cannot  endure 
a  long  journey  and  think  I  would  better  make 
this  last  attempt." 

"  Don't  think  of  it ! "  the  man  protested. 
"  Turn  back.  I  will  go  with  you.  Put  your 
trust  in  God." 

Overcome  by  the  persuasions  of  this  strange 
guide,  and  delighted  with  the  i.hought  of  a  com- 
panion, he  started  and  began  to  plod  over  the 
back  track.  His  guide  seemed  to  be  invisible 
except  when  the  doubting  traveller  was  disposed 
to  question  the  wisdom  of  the  choice  of  route ; 
then  the  commanding  form  appeared  again, 
urging  him  on  with  words  of  encouragement. 


338 


"-ness. 


ice  and 


ossible. 
of  scal- 

I  can 


(( 


It    IS 


rotested 
advice. 

iway,  I 
tatters, 
endure 

;r  make 

atested. 
at  your 

strange 
a  com- 
ver  the 
nvisible 
isposed 

route ; 

again, 
rement. 


XXV. 

"  All  that  is  left  of  him ^ 

OUT  in  that  world  from  which  Wayne 
Pierson  had  so  strangely  and  so 
effectually  hidden  himself,  life  was 
moving  on  in  the  regular  routine  that 
for  the  most  part  it  continues,  even  when  the 
grave  has  closed  over  the  hopes  of  some.  The 
sturdy  blacksmith  and  his  desolate  wife  lived 
their  stricken  lives  as  best  thev  could,  and 
talked  often,  softly,  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
of  Sarah,  and  of  how  she  wa<.  missed  and 
mourned  in  the  school,  in  the  church,  and,  in- 
deed, wherever  their  world  reached ;  and  they 
murmured  together  occasionallv  over  that  sor- 
row so  mucii  greater,  they  believed,  than  theirs, 
and  of  how  the  broken-hearted  man  had  tried 
to  bury  his  grief  in  the  great  wilderness. 

"  He  won't  find  any  help  there,"  would  the 
blacksmith  affirm,  drawing  from  his  great 
lungr  a  sigh  that  was  almost  like  a  sob. 
"  Hl  11  have  to  learn,  poor  fellow,  that  the 
only  place  to  find  it  is  in  God.  Seems  strange 
that  he  could  go  on  knowing  our  Sarah  all 
these  years  and  not  find  God." 

339 


!'    fl 


I"  t 


i::  !  \ 


I  I 


■I'M         I     I 


I 

I   I 


) « 


,'  I 


mm 


By    ff^ay  of  the    JVihlerncss. 

Meantime,  in  an  entirely  different  world 
from  theirs,  those  others  who  had  been  stricken 
through  the  same  means  lived  their  lives  as 
best  they  could.  Enid  Wilmer  and  her 
mother  left  the  little  western  town  where  they 
had  suffered  such  strange  experiences  two  days 
after  the  funeral,  and  went  to  one  of  the  nu- 
merous mountain  resorts  that  had  been  allur- 
ingly pointed  out  to  them,  to  await  the  return 
of  the  husband  and  father.  Mrs.  Wilmer, 
wise  woman  that  she  was,  felt  that  there  was 
something  beneath  the  surface  that  she  did 
not  understand,  and  watched  Enid's  white, 
quiet  face  with  a  daily  increasing  anxiety,  and 
resolved  at  last  to  break  the  strained  silence. 

Enid  sat  on  the  white  covered  lounge  in 
their  room  watching  the  afterglow  of  the  sun- 
set, and  the  look  on  her  face  made  her  mother's 
heart  yearn  over  her.  She  dropped  beside  her, 
and,  drawing  the  brown  head  to  her  shoulder, 
let  her  fingers  play  among  the  waves  of  hair 
with  a  caressing  movement  that  Enid  knew, 
as  she  said  tenderly  :  — 

"  Isn't  it  time,  darling,  for  mother  to  be 
told  all  about  it  ?  " 

If  Enid  had  buried  her  head  in  her  mother's 
neck  and  cried,  the  mother  would  have  been 
relieved.  Instead,  she  smiled,  a  grave  sweet 
smile  that  had  infinite  depths  of  sadness  in  it, 
and  for  a  little  said  not  a  word. 


^rncss. 

It    world 

stricken 

lives  as 

and     her 

lere  they 

two  days 

the  nu- 

:en  allur- 

le  return 

Wilmer, 

lie  re  was 

she  did 

's  white, 

iety,  and 

ilence. 

unge   in 

the  sun- 

nother's 

ide  her, 

houlder, 

of  hair 

.    knew, 

to   be 

lother's 
^e  been 
I  sweet 
s  in  it, 


s 


'•'■  All  that  is  left  of  him:!'' 

"  What  sh'^iild  there  be  for  me  to  tell, 
mother  dear  ?  "  she  asked  at  last,  the  continued 
silence  compelling  her  to  speech. 

"  I  don't  know,  daughter;  it  is  for  you  to 
say.  Do  you  think  I  cannot  see  that  my 
child  is  bearing  a  heavy  load  of  pain  of  some 
sort?  Just  what  it  is  or  why  it  is  I  do  not 
understand,  but  that  it  is  real  I  would  be  blind 
if  I  did  not-  see.  Have  I  been  so  poor  a 
mother  that  you  can  afford  to  shut  me  out  ? " 

Then  the  brown  head  went  down  on  the 
mother's  shoulder,  and  the  words  were  tremu- 
lous with  tears. 

"  O  mother !  ihere  could  never  be  a  dearer, 
sweeter,  wiser  mother  than  you,  and  if  there 
were  anything  to  tell,  don't  you  know  how 
swiftly  I  would  run  to  you  with  it;  but  there 
is  nothing,  mamma,  only  —  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  understand  much  ;  it  is  the 
*only'  that  I  want  to  have  explained." 

"  Mamma,  a  woman  like  you  knows,  with- 
out explanation,  how  hard  it  would  be  to  lose 
respect  for  one  who  had  been  a  friend." 

"  Yes,  that  would  be  hard.  How  did  it 
happen  ?  "  The  mother  was  resolved  now  to 
have  the  entire  story.  But  she  had  to  wait, 
and  question  again. 

"  I  am  sure,  darling,  that  you  are  speaking 
of  Wayne,  and  that  you  have,  for  some  reason, 
lost  faith  in  him.     Can   you   tell   me  what  it 


■  i 


!'  ' 


'  :i 


1. '  I 

I  I 

i 


l:M 


By    JVay  of  the    ll^ilderness. 

means  ?  Was  Wayne  more  to  you  than  ap- 
peared on  the  surface  ?  I  saw  his  letters,  you 
know.  Did  they  mean  more  than  they  said, 
or  was  there  something  else,  something  that  I 
do  not  know  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  thing  that  cannot  be  explained  in 
words  ;  it  has  to  be  lived.  Mamma,  he  was  not 
true;  not  true  to  anybody.  Do  you  under- 
stand that  he  was  engaged  to  that  poor  girl  all 
these  years  ?  All  the  time  when  he  was  abroad, 
and  that  first  summer  before  he  went  abroad, 
when  I  was  at  Auntie's.  It  was  an  engagement 
from  the  very  first.  W^iy  did  he  spend  his 
time  writing  to  me,  and  in  visiting  with  me  .f* 
Why  did  he  —  oh!  don't  you  know  how  im- 
possible it  is  to  tell  it  ?  Don't  you  feel  the 
fals.ness  of  it  all  ?  And  what  was  she  endur- 
ing all  these  years?  So  true  a  girl,  so  noble 
and  self-forgetful  and  trustful !  I  feel  my  face 
burning  with  indignation  for  her.  She  thought 
him  everything  that  was  good  and  grand,  and 
so  did  I  until  I  knew  her.  Don't  you  under- 
s*-ruid  ?  " 

"  Not  quite,  my  daughter.  Wayne  may 
have  been  very  foolish  to  have  continued  a 
friendly  correspondence  with  you  during  the 
years,  but  the  intimacy  between  the  two  fami- 
lies might  have  accounted  for  that ;  then,  when 
we  were  abroad,  he  felt  that  we  were  in  a  sense 
dependent  upon  him.     He  may  have  given  us 


'rncss. 

than  ap- 
ters,  you 
hey  said, 
[ig  that  I 

lained  in 
e  was  not 
u  under- 
r  girl  all 
.s  abroad, 
t  abroad, 
^agement 
pend  his 
vith  me  ? 

how  im- 
i  feel  the 
e  endur- 
so  noble 
[  my  face 

thought 
and,  and 
u  under- 

yne  may 
tinued  a 
ring  the 
wo  fami- 
en,  when 
n  a  sense 
given  us 


^'■All  that  is  left  of  him^ 

more  time  than  was  necessary,  but  he  was  far 
away  from  all  other  friends,  and  lonely  ;  I  can- 
not say  that  I  think  it  was  very  strange.  It 
may,  as  I  say,  have  been  foolish,  but  young 
men  often  err  in  judgment,  yet  it  seems  not 
quite  fair  to  call  them  false.  There  may  have 
been  reasons  for  the  long  engagement  that  we 
do  not  understand,  may  there  not?  Am  I 
hearing  all  that  there  is  to  hear,  darling  ?  " 

"  Mother,  there  was  a  time,  —  there  was  one 
evening,  —  it  was  when  I  was  at  Effie's,  only 
this  summer.  I  did  not  tell  you  about  it, 
because  I  thought  you  would  have  been  so 
frightened  over  the  peril,  and  there  would  have 
been  no  need.  And  then,  besides,  such  strange 
things  happened  almost  immediately  that  I  did 
not  think  I  could  tell  you,  but  —  " 

And  then  the  mother  heard  for  the  first  time 
of  that  misstep  at  Table  Rock  and  the  awful 
peril  that  for  a  moment  threatened  her  darling. 
She  spoke  no  word,  but  tightened  her  clasp  of 
the  cold  fingers,  and  pressed  her  lips  with 
soundless  kisses  to  the  girl's  fair  cheek.  And 
then  she  heard  of  that  word  which  seemed 
wrung  from  the  soul  of  the  rescuer  as  he  car- 
ried her  child  \\y  his  arms  to  safety :  "  Oh,  my 
darling  I  " 

"  I  thought  he  meant  it,  mamma ;  meant  it  in 
the  only  way  that  a  true  man  can  ;  and  I  was  — 
I  was  happy  in  the  thought.    But  the  next  day  he 

343 


i 


fi^f 


I 


!    ) 


:|ii 


;  ■ 


By    IVay  of  the    IVildcrness. 

did  not  come  even  to  the  house  where  I  was, 
and  left  the  morning  after,  with  only  a  formal 
message  for  me,  as  if  we  had  been  passing 
acquaintances.  I  did  not  understand,  but  I 
trusted.  I  thought  there  were  reasons,  noble 
reasons,  for  his  silence,  and  that  I  should  soon 
know  all  about  it.  And  I  did  !  It  was  only  two 
weeks  after  that,  that  we  drove  over  to  Hardin 
and  I  met  Sarah ;  and  when  I  went  to  her 
room  to  arrange  my  hair  that  afternoon,  I  saw 
his  photograph  on  her  mantel,  and  letters  in 
his  writing  on  her  table.  And,  — mamma,  you 
must  understand  the  rest. 

"  I  had  to  stay  there  and  find  out  for  myself 
what  it  all  meant.  I  couldn't  go  away.  And 
I  found  out." 

When  Mrs.  Wilmer  did  at  last  speak,  what 
she  said  was  so  utterly  different  from  anything 
that  her  daughter  expected  that  the  girl  lifted 
her  head  and  strained  her  eyes  in  the  fast  wan- 
ing light  to  get  a  view  of  her  mother's  face. 

Said  Mrs.  Wilmer  :  "  Poor  boy  !  " 

"  I  mean  it,  darling,"  she  added,  bending  to 
kiss  the  quivering  lips,  and  the  cheeks  that  had 
crimsoned  under  the  power  and  the  pain  of  her 
story.  "  1  see  how  it  locks  to  you;  but  I  can- 
not help  a  touch  of  pity  for  the  poor,  foolish, 
headstrong  boy  who  had  been  inveigled  into  an 
engagement  in  some  way  that  did  not  represent 
his  heart,  and  became  thenceforth  a  victim  to 

344 


wm 


mess. 

I  I  was, 

I  formal 

passing 

1,  but   I 

s,  noble 

lid  soon 

)nly  two 

Hardin 

to   her 

n,  I  saw 

tters   in 

ma,  you 

myself 
\     And 

k,  what 
ything 
rl  lifted 
ist  wan- 
ace. 

ding  to 
hat  had 
n  of  her 
t  I  can- 
foolish, 
into  an 
;  present 
ctim  to 


".-///  t/iat  is  left  of  him!''' 

his  false  ideas  of  honor.  I  see  it  all,  as  plainly 
as  though  he  had  told  me  the  story  ;  and  much 
that  was  a  mystery  in  his  conduct  is  explained." 

Enid  twisted  herself  quite  away  from  her 
mother's  encircling  arm  and  sat  erect,  her  eyes 
flashing. 

"  Mother  !  "  she  said,  "  I  cannot  allow  even 
you  ro  speak  in  that  way  of  Saru'*  c  her  peo- 
ple. She  was  true  and  noble  and  unselfish 
to  a  degree  that  the  very  angels  might  envy. 
I  never  knew  a  purer-hearted  gir! ;  and  those 
people,  —  her  father  and  mother,  —  they  are 
not  cultured  or  educated,  but  they  are  true  ; 
and  they  have  true  nobility,  both  of  them. 
You  do  not  understand.  There  was  no  in- 
veiglement nor  deception ;  not  one  of  them 
but  would  scorn  to  stoop  to  anything  of  the 
kind.  They  were  so  honorable  themselves 
and  knew  so  little  of  the  world  that  they  did 
not  for  a  moment  dream  of  anything  dis- 
honorable in  the  treatment  they  were  receiv- 
ing. Poor  Sarah  had  no  word  for  him  but 
the  loveliest  trust.     O   mamma  !   mamma  !  " 

The  flash  of  indignation  was  gone,  and  she 
lay  weeping  and  trembling  in  her  mother's 
arms. 

"  My  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Wilmer,  speaking 
softly  :  •  to  a  frightened  child,  "  I  think  I  un- 
derstand ;  and  I  believe  with  you,  that  the  girl, 
Sarah,  was   good  and    true   and   pure-hearted. 

345 


iiHi|: 


...  .  !■ 


'' 


By    Jt^ay  of  the    IVilderness. 

But  at  the  same  time  you  must  let  me  speak, 
one  word  for  the  young  man.  I  have  watched 
Wayne  Pierson  carefvilly,  even  anxiously, 
through  these  years,  and  1  believe  I  under- 
stand him.  He  has  faults,  grave  ones,  but 
falseness  is  not  one  of  them.  If  vou  ever 
learn  the  whole  story,  I  fancy  you  will  even 
find  that  it  is  a  false  idea  of  truth  and  honor 
that  has  sacrificed  him.  I  have  seen  people 
before  who  fancied  that  they  were  bound  to 
live  a  lie  because  they  had  in  some  way,  at  some 
time,  been  misunderstood.  Undoubtedly  he 
has  been  foolish,  and  careless,  possibly  at  times 
reckless,  —  he  is  capable  of  all  three,  —  but 
never  what  he  considers  dishonorable.  Per- 
haps his  very  gravest  fault  is  inordinate  confi- 
dence in  his  own  judgment,  and  it  is  probably 
that  which  has  led  him  wrong.  If  you  ever 
hear  —  " 

Enid  sat  up  again,  her  eyes  dry,  her  face 
burning,  and  interrupted  her  mother :  "  I 
never  want  to  hear  of  him  again,  mamma,  never  ! 
The  man  who  could  speak  to  me  as  he  did,  and 
look  as  he  did,  and  be  at  the  same  time  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  a  girl  whom  he  had  for 
four  long  years  taught  to  love  and  trust  him,  is 
a  villain.     I  wish  1  need  never  see  him  again." 

Meantime,  Aunt  Crete  was  nursing  her  in- 
dignation and  astonishment.     It  all  came  out, 


w 


I  speak 
vatched 
<iously, 

under- 
es,  but 
lu   ever 

II  even 
honor 

people 
Lind  to 
It  some 
;dly  he 
,t  times 
—  but 
Per- 
confi- 
obably 
u  ever 

iv  face 


C( 


I 

never ! 
id,  and 
ne  en- 
lad  for 
lim,  is 
igain." 

ler  in- 
e  out, 


"^//  t/jaf  is  left  of  himP 

of  course.  Matters  that  we  desire  to  keep 
from  the  public  always  do.  Somebody,  no  one 
took  the  trouble  to  inquire  who,  interested  him- 
self in  seeing  that  not  only  Aunt  Crete  but  the 
Pierson  household  received  the  local  papers  of 
"Hardin  Township,"  and  not  alone  the  IVest- 
over  Chronicle  but  half  a  dozen  other  papers  as 
well  occupied  space  with  every  actual  and  many 
imagined  details  of  the  tragedy  that  had  shaken 
the  neighborhood.  The  nam.e  of  "  Wayne 
Lorimer  Pierson  "  must  have  been  rolled  as  a 
sweet  morsel  on  the  tongue  of  more  than  one 
reporter,  so  frequently  did  the  types  have  to 
repeat  it.  And  then,  instead  of  returning  to 
Aunt  Crete's  storm  of  indignant  questions,  and 
to  the  tender  petting  that  she  knew  in  her  heart 
would  come  later,  her  bov  had  taken  himself 
off  to  the  wilderness  ! 

Thir,  in  truth,  was  the  added  drop  too  much 
in  Aunt  Crete's  cup.  In  vain  she  told  herself 
aloud  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room  that  it 
was  a  good  thing  he  had  gone,  she  should 
think  he  would  want  to  hide  !  In  her  sore  heart 
she  knew  that  she  wanted  to  fold  her  arms 
about  him  at  that  moment.  She  took  a  little 
satisfaction  in  writing  to  his  father,  that  it  was 
no  wonder,  she  was  sure,  that  Wayne  had  felt 
compelled  to  seek  his  comfort  elsewhere,  since 
there  was  none  to  be  had  for  the  poor  boy  in 
his  own  home. 

347 


.1 

'j 


(H 


I'M 


^    //^^  ^  //6^    JVilderness. 

And  the  father  ?  Surprise,  bewilderment, 
and  indignation  struggled  with  one  another  for 
the  mastery.  Bewilderment  was  for  the  most 
part  uppermost.  It  was  all  so  strange  in 
Wayne  !  Why  had  he  maintained  such  secrecy 
even  with  his  aunt  ?  There  must  be  some- 
thing that  they  did  not  understand.  And  then 
he  discovered  to  himself  that  he  had  always 
known  that  the  boy  was  the  soul  of  honor. 

Before  any  of  those  most  disturbed  had  had 
time  to  settle  to  the  inevitable  facts  and  try  to 
grow  used  to  them,  followed  the  terrible  news 
that  the  traveller  was  lost !  His  travelling  com- 
panions had  returned  to  camp  and  reported 
that  after  the  most  vigorous  and  exhaustive 
search  they  had  been  compelled  to  abandon 
him  until  more  help  could  be  secured  ! 

The  telegraph  blazoned  this  news  over  the 
country,  and  this  time  many  more  papers  than 
the  Westover  Chronicle  exhausted  adjectives  in 
trying  to  conjecture  the  horrors  of  the  situa- 
tion. The  busy  city  lawyer  dropped  his  briefs 
and  his  notes  of  important  engagements,  left 
his  numberless  trusts,  with  the  briefest  of  hur- 
ried explanations,  in  the  hands  of  others,  and 
went  as  far  and  as  fast  as  steam  could  take  him 
in  search  of  his  son.  It  was  not  sufficient  to 
be  assui*ed  that  everything  that  money  and 
skilled  explorers  could  do  was  being  done :  he 
must  go  himself.     What  were  business  engage- 

348 


erment, 
ther  for 
le  most 
,nge  in 
secrecy 

some- 
id  then 

always 

lor. 

lad  had 

I  try  to 

ie  news 

ig  com- 

eported 

laustive 

bandon 
I 

/er  the 

•s  than 

ives  in 

:  situa- 

s  briefs 

Its,  left 

)f  hur- 

s,  and 

ce  him 

ent  to 

iy   and 

ne :  he 

ngage- 


'^J/l  that  is  left  of  himP 

ments  to  him  now  ?  What  was  anything  ? 
His  boy  was  lost!  And  Aunt  Crete?  poor 
Aunt  Crete  !  she  could  not  go  with  the  father 
as  she  longed  to  do,  she  could  not  do  any- 
thing but  wait  and  pray.  We  have  a  habit  of 
using  language  in  that  manner,  yet,  after  all, 
we  believe  and  know  that  Aunt  Crete  on  her 
knees  set  at  work  the  most  tremendous  forces 
for  relief  that  it  was  possible  to  secure.  The 
poor  young  man  in  the  wilderness,  as  often  as 
he  thought  of  her,  saw  her  always  on  her  knees, 
and  drew  his  hope  and  his  strength  from  the 
thought. 

They  would  not  let  the  almost  distracted 
father  follow  the  last  rescuing  party  down  the 
trail.  The  sturdy  men  who  had  volunteered  to 
make  another  desperate  search  shook  their 
heads  stolidly  to  his  appeal. 

"  It  would  only  mean  two  to  take  care  of 
instead  of  one,"  said  the  keenest-brained  of 
the  group ;  "  we  need  all  our  strength  for 
him."  Then  the  father  coaxed  no  more,  but 
waited,  and  got  through  the  terrible  days  and 
the  awful  nights  as  best  he  could,  in  that  mining 
camp ;  tenderly  cared  for  and  watched  over  by 
the  rough  men  whose  camp  it  was,  and  who 
shook  their  heads  in  ominous  silence  over  the 
folly  of  his  forlorn  hope. 

There  came  a  day  when  Wayne,  benumbed 
with  cold,  trying  to  struggle  on  in  the  face  of  a 

349 


f 


:  I 


I  ; 


I  t 


Hi 


■  iS\ 


By    If^ay  of  the    IVihlcrness. 

pitiless  storm,  felt  his  strength  leaving  him  and 
knew  that  he  must  stop  and  try  to  raise  a  fire, 
or  perish  very  soon.  Knew  indeed,  or  thought 
he  knew,  that  he  must  die  very  soon  in  any 
case.  Could  he  not  die  better  if  he  were  warm  ? 
Some  heaven-sent  suggestion  had  made  him 
preserve  a  brand  from  the  last  night's  fire,  and 
he  groped  about  trying  to  find  something  not 
too  wet  to  burn.  Again  and  again  he  tried  to 
coax  the  few  sparks  left  in  his  brand  into  a 
flame.  His  hands  were  growing  too  numb  to 
hold  it  longer,  and  he  found  there  was  no 
breath  in  his  lungs  when  he  tried  to  blow  upon 
the  sparks. 

"  It  is  the  end  !  "  he  said  aloud  and  with  a 
solemnity  that  the  very  rocks  might  have  felt. 

And  then  there  was  a  crackling  of  the  wet 
bushes  near  at  hand,  and  the  instinct  of  preser- 
vation, which  it  seems  cannot  die,  made  him 
start  and  turn  his  head,  and  a  voice,  a  human 
voice,  said,  "  Are  you  Mr.  Pierson  ?  " 

He  stared  at  them  :  at  the  two  apparitions 
who  looked  down  at  him  from  the  rocks  above. 
Were  they  angels  ?  He  had  not  thought  that 
angels  looked  just  like  them,  yet  they  knew 
him.     He  stared  and  spoke  no  word. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  said  the  Voice,  again, 
"  we  must  carry  him ;  he  is  beyond  speech,  I 
guess." 

And  then,  suddenly,  cliff  and  forest  and  the 
350 


m^ 


lim  and 
;  a  fire, 
:hought 
in  any 
warm  ? 
de  him 
ire,  and 
ing  not 
tried  to 
i  into  a 
Limb  to 
was  no 
)W  upon 

i  with  a 
.ve  felt, 
the  wet 

preser- 
ide  him 

human 

»aritions 
5  above, 
rht  that 
y  knew 

again, 
)eech,  I 

and  the 


"  All  that  is  left  of  himr 

sense  of  cold  and  the  apparition  of  fac^s  and 
the  impression  of  the  Voice  faded  out  togetiier. 

They  carried  him  on  their  sturdy  shoulders 
with  slow,  sure  progress  through  the  wilderness. 
They  were  not  sure  that  he  was  dead ;  they 
must  get  him  on  a  few  rods  to  where  they  had 
a  fire  before  thev  could  be  certain. 

"  Dead  or  alive,"  said  the  grimmest  of  the 
two,  "  his  father  shall  have  all  that  is  left  of  him." 

They  were  faithfi  1  to  their  trust.  Seven 
days  afterward,  in  the  travellers*  quarters  at 
Fort  Ellis,  surrounded  by  the  appliances  and 
resources  of  civilization,  the  lawyer  at  the  bed- 
side of  his  son  watched  the  struggle  going  on 
between  life  and  death.  How  often  he  had 
watched  it  in  the  crowded  court  room  !  how 
skilfully  and  untiringly  he  had  participated  in 
the  struggle  !  how  many  times  he  had  come  off 
victor  !  Now  he  felt  himself  as  powerless  as  the 
watch  on  the  stand  by  the  bedside  that  ticked 
away  the  solemn  hours.  What  hours  they 
had  been !  Seven  days  of  suspense,  seven 
nights  of  torture,  and  still  the  struggle  con- 
tinued and  no  man  knew  which  should  be 
victor.  There  were  many  helpers,  and  Aunt 
Crete  from  her  distant  home  was  coming  as 
fast  as  steam  could  bring  her ;  but  the  father 
had  been  the  untiring  watcher  day  and  night. 
The  solemn  hours  he  had  spent  alone  by  that 
unconscious  form  on  the  bed !     Will  the  busy, 


IT 

■    (.:    J. 

lilili 


l: 


I     I 


(,■« 


M'   • 


i 


By    fl^^jy  of  the    IVildcrness. 

successful  man  of  the  world  ever  forget  them  ? 
The  world  had  rolled  between  himself  and  his 
son;  he  realized  that;  had  he  been  less  busy, 
less  absorbed,  many  things  that  had  happened 
need  not  ha\  j  happened.  Should  he  !iever  be 
able  to  say  those  words  he  had  planned  long  ago 
to  say,  "  My  boy, forgive  me!  "  Ah, but  he  real- 
ized a  more  tremendous  truth  than  that.  The 
world  had  rolled  between  himself  and  his  God  ! 
Once  he  r.sed  to  know  God  ;  to  be  on  intimate 
terms  wiM  Him,  to  think,  of  Him  as  a  friend. 
Now  he  felt  a  million  miles  removed  from 
Him  and  yet  felt  alone  with  Him,  he  and  God! 
He  dropped  to  his  knees  at  last,  the  man  who 
had  not  prayed  in  a  score  of  years,  and  cried 
out  in  his  agony,  "Oh,  God!  Oh,  GW/" 
At  first  it  was  all  that  he  could  say.  But 
when  did  a  soul  come  with  even  an  unvoiced 
agony  to  God  and  not  receive  instant  response  ? 

After  that  he  had  prayed  and  prayed:  and 
his  only  moments  of  relief  were  found  upon 
his  knees.  He  was  kneeling  that  night,  and 
praying :  trying  to  get  used  to  the  words, 
"Thy  will,  not  mine;"  trying  to  get  used  to 
the  awful  gulf  of  separation  that  he  felt  was 
widening,  and  ividen'mg. 

A  pair  of  great  eyes  from  the  bed  were  watch- 
ing him.     A  wondering  voice  spoke  softly:  — 

"  Father !  did  you  die  too  ?  Arc  we  both  in 
heaven  ?  " 


(I'l 


'mess. 


t  them  ? 
'  and  his 
ss  busy, 
appened 
liever  be 
long  ago 
t  he  real- 
,t.  The 
lis  God  ! 
intimate 
I  friend, 
xi  from 
nd  God! 
nan  who 
nd  cried 
GW/" 
.  But 
invoiced 
sponse  ? 
ed :  and 
id  upon 
^ht,  and 
:  words, 
used  to 
felt  was 

e  watch - 
ftly :  — 
both  in 


I 


XXVI. 

By  the   Way  of  Peace. 

THE  father's  heart  leaped  with  joy  when 
he  heard  that  voice,  scarcely  above  a 
whisper  though  it  was.  He  bent  over 
the  bed,  pressed  a  kiss  on  the  white 
brow,  then  silently  gave  to  the  patient  a  spoon- 
ful of  nourishment,  drew  the  covering  o\Lr 
him  and  said  gently,  "  Hush." 

The  two  looked  an  instant  into  each  other's 
faces  and  smiled.  Then  the  son  closed  his  eyes 
again  in  sleep  and  the  father,  ga/ing  anxiously, 
thought  within  himself  that  the  face  on  the  pil- 
low had  the  whiteness  and  the  content  of  one 
who  is  sleeping  his  last  sleep.  Nevertheless  he 
dared  to  hope  that  the  fever  had  abated,  and 
the  crisis  was  being  safely  passed. 

And  so  it  proved.  The  days  of  convales- 
cence that  followed  were  precious,  when  the 
father  and  aunt  tenderly  nursed  their  dear  one 
back  to  life.  The  father  and  son  drew  near  to 
each  other,  forgetting  the  hateful-  past  and  re- 
joicing in  the  old-time  trust.  As  Wnvne  grew 
stronger  his  two  auditors  never  tired  of  listening 

353 


I    : 


By    ^f^ciy  of  the    JVilderness. 

to  every  detail  of  that  terrible  month  when   he 
was  entombed  in  the  wilderness. 

While  Aunt  Crete  rested,  the  other  two  en- 
joyed many  an  hour  of  quiet  talk.  They  did 
not  speak  of  the  chief  cause  of  the  long  aliena- 
tion between  them  —  Leon ;  it  was  a  sore  subject 
for  the  father.  He  would  long  ago  have  ad- 
mitted to  his  son  that  he  was  aware  there  had 
been  just  cause  for  complaint  and  that  he  had 
judged  him  harshly,  but  that  Wayne,  in  the 
past  few  years,  at  every  iiterview  had  seemed 
t()  him  so  proud  and  cold  and  self-sufficient  that 
the  father's  own  pride  had  never  allowed  him 
to  speak  the  conciliating  words.  Now  pride 
was  gone  and,  in  its  place,  was  an  infinite 
tenderness.  His  son  was  dead  and  was  alive 
again  ;    he  was  lost  and  was  found. 

As  for  Wayne,  he  suspected  that  his  father 
had  received  clearer  vision  as  to  the  true  state 
of  things  and  carried  a  burden  in  proportion. 
Not  for  worlds  would  he  add  to  it,  now  that  he 
knew  what  depths  of  tenderness  for  himself  had 
been  hidden  in  that  great  heart.  Moreover  . 
had  scarcely  thought  of  Leon  for  weeks.  Now, 
with  returning  strength,  he  refused  to  allow  his 
mind  to  dwell  upon  anything  that  might  disturb 
the  blessed  peace  which  had  come  to  him. 

There  was. another  theme,  too,  of  which  they 
did  not  speak,  that  was  ever  in  their  thoughts. 
Wayne  Pierson   had   bravely  faced    lions   and 

354 


Tness. 

kvhen  he 

two  en- 
"hey  did 
g  aliena- 
e  subject 
lave  ad- 
lere  had 

he  had 
;,  in  the 

seemed 
lent  that 
ved  him 
w  pride 

infinite 
as  aHve 

s  father 
ue  state 
portion, 
that  he 
self  had 
over  . 

Now, 
low  his 
disturb 
in. 
h  they 
oughts, 
ns   and 


By  the    M^ay  of  Peace. 

wolves,  had  stared  sta'-vation  in  the  face,  and 
walked  hand  in  hand  with  death  for  week  .,  and 
his  spirit  had  not  flinched.  But  now  his  heart 
throbbed  wildly,  and  he  shrank  and  ticmbled 
when  he  wished  to  speak  a  few  words  to  his 
father  about  the  things  that  are  said  to  belong 
to  another  world,  but,  in  reality,  should  be  the 
chief  concern  of  this  one.  And  in  like  manner 
the  father,  who  was  accustomed  to  plead  before 
high  tribunals,  with  intellectual  giants  as  critics, 
yet  hesitated  to  speak  a  few  simple  words  to  his 
own  son  in  the  quiet  of  his  room,  though  he 
longed  to  tell  him  of  the  decision  he  had  made 
and  counsel  him  to  follow  his  example.  Wayne 
was  filled  with  intense  desire  that  his  father 
might  have  the  rest  of  soul  that  had  been 
given  to  him.  It  would  be  difficult,  he  rea- 
soned, for  his  father,  with  a  nature  more  in- 
clined to  command  than  to  submit,  and  with 
habits  of  lifelong  unbelief,  to  accept  the  simple 
gospel  and  in  lowliness  of  spirit  account  himself 
a  sinner  to  be  saved. 

The  day  came,  though,  when  Wayne  could 
keep  silence  no  longer.  Mr.  Pierson  was  soon 
to  return  to  his  business,  leaving  Aunt  Crete 
with  the  invalid.  Wayne  was  sitting  up  for 
the  first  time  on  a  lovely  morning ;  the  cheery 
sunshine  looked  in  at  the  window,  lighted  the 
peaks  of  a  distant  purple  mountain,  and  sent 
sparkles  over  the  face  of  a  lake  near  by.     It 

355 


Ht^ 

m' 

1 

-A.  .  '  •.'' 

1        ' 

I    .    I 


I  ! 


By    ff^^(y  of  the    IVildcrness. 

reminded  Wayne  of  the  lake  in  the  wilderness, 
and  he  began  suddenly,  lest  his  courage  fail. 

"Father,  I  have  something  still  more  wonder- 
ful to  tell  you  of  which  I  have  not  yet  spoken, 
and  you  musL  know  it  before  you  go.  It  is  to 
revolutionize  my  whole  life,  I  trust.  Perhaps 
you  will  be  surprised  to  know  that  I  have 
become  a  servant  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  He 
followed  me,  a  lost  sheep,  to  the  wilderness,  and 
found  me  before  the  inen  did  that  you  sent  out." 

And  then  the  father  listened  with  keen  inter- 
est while  the  son  told  the  story  in  low,  tender 
tones,  adding  at  the  close  *  "  Perhaps  it  may 
seem  like  superstition  to  you  that  I  believe 
He  guided  me  to  my  deliverers,  even  through 
the  hallucination  of  a  tottering  brain.  You 
can  have  no  idea  of  the  blessed  comfort  it  was 
to  me  to  have  that  wise,  kind,  strong  man 
come  and  tell  me  just  what  to  do.  Sometimes 
I  have  wondered  if  it  were  irreverent  to  believe 
that  the  Good  Shepherd  Himself  really  came 
over  the  dark,  rough  way  by  my  side  and 
cheered  me  with  a  kind  word  now  and  then  as 
He  sometimes  did  for  His  disciples  when  He 
was  on  the  earth.  Certainly  if  I  had  not  fol- 
lov/ed  a  voice  that  distinctly  told  me  to  turn 
about  and  go  in  an  opposite  direction,  and  in  a 
way  contrary  to  my  judgment  and  inclinations, 
I  should  have  been  far  from  the  place  where  I 
was  rescued." 


■ 


'mess. 

Iderness, 
e  fail, 
wonder- 
spoken, 
It  is  to 
Perhaps 
I    have 
-ist.    He 
ness,  and 
snt  out." 
en  inter- 
V,  tender 
5  it  may 
believe 
through 
1.      You 
rt  it  was 
ig   man 
metimes 
believe 
ly  came 
de    and 
then  as 
hen  He 
not  fol- 
to  turn 
and  in  a 
nations, 
where  I 


By  the    IVay  of  Peace. 

Wayne,  at  first,  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
distant  hills  while  he  talked,  dreading  to  meet 
an  unsympathetic  glance  from  his  father,  but 
presently  turned  his  head,  expecting  an  incredu- 
lous, pitying  look,  and  was  amazed  at  the  joy- 
ful expression  of  his  father's  face  while  he  wiped 
away  the  tears  and  grasped  his  hand,  exclaiming, 
"  Thank  God  !  " 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  "you  are  braver  than  I. 
I  have  not  yet  had  the  courage  to  confess  to 
you  that  while  I  waited  here  in  an  agony  of 
suspense  I  prayed  for  the  first  time  in  long 
years.  I  dare  not  say  yet  that  I  belong  to  Him. 
I  only  know  that  I  asked  Him  to  come  into  my 
life.  Whether  He  will*  receive  me  I  know  not, 
but  it  is  my  purpose  to  serve  Him  for  the  rest 
of  my  life.  And  now,  dear  boy,"  he  went  on 
in  a  broken  voice,  "  I  want  you  to  forgive  the 
mistakes  I  made  through  all  these  past  years, 
and  the  injustice  and  harsh  judgments  of  which 
I  have  been  guilty.  I  begin  to  see  what  you 
must  have  suffered,  and  —  " 

"  Father,  don't  !  "  Wayne  interrupted. 
"  Please  don't  say  any  more  such  things.  It 
is  all  right  now.  Much  of  the  trouble  was  my 
own  fault.  I  was  too  sensitive,  and  I  was  im- 
perious, and  cold,  and  proud,  and  unforgiving, 
and  everything  that  was  unlovely.  You  for- 
give me  and  overlook  all  that  has  been  wrong 
in  my  past.     We  can  begin  to  live  this  new  life 


fTT*^ 


I* 


ill 


^• '  i 


■t 


■  '  t 


U    '  ! 


:)l 


<   i 
,.    'i 


:    i  I  I;,     t 
-  -  ■  p 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

together.  Oh,  father,  how  glad  and  happy  I 
am  to  know  that  you,  too,  have  come  to  Him." 

"  I  hope  I  have,"  Mr.  Pierson  said  humbly. 
"The  way  is  not  very  clear  as  yet.  I  am  like 
one  groping  in  the  dark.  It  seems  presump- 
tuous for  one  who  has  spent  years  and  years  in 
ignoring  God,  and  living  in  defiance  of  His 
commands,  to  come  when  he  is  growing  old 
and  offer  the  dregs  of  his  life  to  the  Lord  and 
expect  to  be  accepted." 

"  But,  father,  it  is  written,  '  Whosoever  will, 
let  him  take  the  water  of  life  freely,'  "  Wayne 
said  earnestly.  "  I  think  many  of  us  stumble 
just  there.  We  cannot  rid  ourselves  of  the 
notion  that  we  must  pay  for  the  favor  of  God 
by  a  good  life,  and  we  will  not  believe  that  par- 
don and  justification  are  gifts,  and  that  a  good 
life  is  the  result  of  believing  in  Christ  and  not 
a  means  to  secure  His  favor." 

"  It  is  all  mystery  to  me,  my  son,"  Mr. 
Pierson  said  with  a  sigh,  *'  I  thought  !  knew 
the  way  once,  but  the  knowledge  must  by  this 
time  be  buried  under  heaps  of  rubbish.  I  only 
know  that  when  I  was  in  distress  about  you,  I 
felt  constrained  to  call  upon  God.  So  don't 
misunderstand  my  state.  I  have  no  sort  of 
feeling,  and  it  is  a  mere  cold  decision.  I  can- 
not even  pray  with  any  satisfaction  to  myself. 
I  am  simply  persuaded  that  God  has  claims 
upon  mc  and   I  want  to  meet  them.     I   may 

3S8 


ness. 

ippy  I 
Him." 

Limbly. 
m  like 
isump- 
ears  in 
)f  His 
tig  old 
rd  and 

er  will, 
Wayne 
tumble 
of  the 
3f  God 
at  par- 
a  good 
id  not 

Mr. 

I  knew 
by  this 
I  only 
you,  \ 
don't 
ort  of 
I  can- 
nyself. 
claims 
I    may 


By  the    fl^ay  of  Peace. 

never  succeed  in  becoming  a  Christian.  It 
seems  an  uphill  road  I  will  frankly  confess." 

"  Why  father,  is  not  that  the  first  s(tp  in 
any  undertaking:  to  will  to  do  it?  And  is 
not  the  will  the  real  self?  " 

"  Well,  my  boy,  you  seem  to  have  got  far 
along  the  way  yourself  I  shall  have  to  learn 
of  you.      Who  taught  you,  I  wonder?" 

"The  Spirit  of  God  I  do  believe,"  Wavne 
answered  reverently,  —  "the  Spirit  applying 
the  truth  learned  long  ago  when  I  was  a  boy, 
thanks  to  mother,  and  recalled  as  I  told  you, 
in  those  desolate  days  when  I  had  to  go  over 
everything  that  I  e\'er  knew  to  employ  mv 
mind  and  so  preserve  my  reason.  Besides,  you 
know,  I  had  time  to  think." 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  have  the  advantage  of  me.  I 
have  no  truths  stored  away  to  bring  forth  fruit." 

"  But  father,  the  scheme  of  salvation  is  so 
beautiful  and  simple;  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
taking  our  place,  bearing  our  sin,  and  handing 
over  a  pardon  to  any  of  us  who  will  ask  ;  re- 
quiring only  in  return  that  we  love  Him  and 
acknowledge  that  He  has  bought  us  and  paid 
for  us,  and  so  of  course  we  rightfully  belong 
to  Him.  Excuse  me,  father,  for  seeming  to 
set  myself  up  as  a  teacher,  bur  I  do  long  to 
have  you  see  it.  You  believe,  don't  you,  that 
we  are  all  sinners  and  that  Christ  catne  into 
the  world  to  save  us  ?  " 

359 


TV 


;  1 1 


I 


ni 


,1   .  I 


1    I  ! 


!   !    'h' 


By    JV^ay  of  the    IVilderness, 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  no  doubts  about  anything 
except  myself.  It  seems  a  thing  ahiiost  im- 
possible to  turn  a  cold,  hard,  worldly  heart,  with 
not  a  spark  of  love  for  God,  into  such  a  Chris- 
tian as  your  mother  was,  for  instance.  I  can- 
not say  that  I  feel  myself  a  great  sinner.  I 
don't  feel  anything  about  it  as  1  ought,  but  I 
know  I  am." 

"  Why  then,"  the  son  said  eagerlv,  "  hear 
this.  It  is  one  of  mother's  verses,  '  The  blood 
of  Jesus  Christ  cleanseth  us  from  all  sin,'  and 
this,  '  If  we  confess  our  sins  He  is  faithful  and 
just  to  forgive  us  our  sins.'  There  is  His 
word  for  it.  When  it  came  to  me  in  that  way, 
father,  I  just  trusted  Him  and  believed  I  was 
forgiven,  not  because  I  felt  it,  but  because  He 
said  so.  We  cannot  depend  upon  our  feelings. 
If  we  have  put  our  wills  on  His  side  and  trust 
alone  in  His  atoning  sacrifice  for  our  salvation, 
why  may  we  not  now  call  ourselves  *  sons  of 
God.'  We  could  never  make  ourselves  any 
more  fit  if  we  were  to  live  hundreds  of  years. 
Don't  you  know  that  old  hymn  that  mother 
used  to  sing  ^  — 

"  Let  not  conscience  make  you  linger. 
Nor  of  fitness  fondly  dream, 
All  the  fitness  He  requireth 
Is  to  feel  your  need  of  Him.." 

That  night  when  they  two  bowed  in  prayer 
together  and  the  father   voiced    his    childlike 
360 


I 


ness. 

ything 
St  im- 
t,  with 

Chris- 
I  can- 
ler.      I 

but  I 

*'  hear 
;  blood 
ti,'  and 
^Lil  and 
is  His 
It  way, 

I  was 
use  lie 
jeHngs. 
d  trust 

ation, 

is  of 
^s   any 

years, 
nother 


By  the    liny  of  Peace. 

trust  in  Christ,  the  son  following  in  fervent 
pleading,  both  felt  that  the  bond  between  them, 
strong  and  dear,  was  nevermore  to  be  broken. 

"  And  did  you  never  get  anv  trace  of  the 
horse  again  ?  "  Aunt  Crete  asked  Wavne  one 
dav,  when  she  was  making  him  go  over  the 
story  of  his  exciting  adventures  for  the  hun- 
dredth time. 

"  Never;  I  suppose  poor  Liph  met  with  the 
same  fite  that  would  have  come  to  me  by  this 
time  if  1  had   not  been   rescued  just  when    I 


was. 


prayer 
Idlike 


Somebody  else  had  heard  of  l.iph,  though. 
A  trapper  told,  that,  as  he  pushed  his  wav 
through  the  dense  forest,  setting  traps  for  wild 
animals,  he  discovered  a  horse  with  i  broken 
limb  entangled  in  the  brushwood.  Nothing 
could  be  done  for  him  but  to  put  him  oat  of 
misery.  The  man  took  possession  of  every- 
thing he  found  strapped  upon  the  horse  except 
a  letter  he  found  addressed  to  "  Miss  Knid  Wil- 
nier."  The  pity  that  had  prompted  him  to 
shoot  the  suffering  animal  moved  him  to  take 
good  care  of  the  letter  and  send  it  on  its  way 
as  soon  as  he  reached  a  mail  station.  "  For," 
reasoned  one  of  Nature's  noblemen  in  the 
rough,  as  he  stood  alone  in  the  woods,  "likely 
as  not  this  letter's  for  some  young  feller's  sweet- 
heart away  down  east.      Maybe  she'll  never  see 

361 


I?TT^ 


mm 


rrn 


f- 


'f< 


•  I  i. 


'  '"I 


h 


By    ff^aj  of  the    Jll/deniess. 

him  again,  but  she  sliall  have  this  letter  to  com- 
fort her  anyhow." 

It  was  one  day  while  Wayne  was  still  in  the 
wilderness,  and  the  Wilmers  tarrying  in  the 
little  mountain  resort  on  account  of  health  and 
business  interests,  that  the  letter  had  reached 
Enid. 

Being  remote  from  newspapers  and  with  mails 
at  rare  intervals,  almost  shut  out  from  the  world 
in  fict,  they  were  ignorant  of  what  had  happened 
to  Wayne. 

Enid  was  on  the  way  to  her  room  for  the 
night  when  the  worn,  begrimed  letter  was  given 
her.  The  handvv'riting  on  the  envelope  set  her 
pulses  throbbing  wildly  even  though  she  thought 
she  had  shut  and  barred  the  door  of  her  heart 
against  the  writer.  Sh  ook^d  the  letter  over 
curiously,  dreading  to  open  it.  When  at  last 
she  broke  the  seal  and  read,  surprise,  sorrow, 
and  delight  struggled  for  the  mastery.  But 
youth  and  joy  belong  to  each  other  and  joy  was 
uppermost,  irradiating  her  flice  and  raining 
down  soft  tears. 

He  was  not  false  hearted.  He  had  loved 
her  and  her  only  all  these  years.  This  precious 
letter  had  come  straight  from  the  depths  of  the 
wilderness,  straight  from  the  true  heiut  of  the 
writer.  Nothing  in  the  universe  could  ever 
make  her  think  ill  of  him  again.  Why  had 
she  ever  doubted  for  one  moniL-nt  but  that 
362 


ri: 


By  the    JVay  of  Peace. 

there  was  some  satisfactory  explanation  of  cir- 
cumstances, however  they  might  appear.  She 
'.jated  herself  for  entertaining  degrading  thoughts 
of  him.  He  may  have  erred,  hut  it  was  on  the 
side  of  nobility  and  not  to  please  himself.  The 
night  waned,  hut  she  heeded  it  not.  A  won- 
drous thing  had  come  to  pass.  Ciod  himself 
had  planned  that  the  highest,  best  joy  of  life 
next  to  loving  Him  should  be  the  joining  of  two 
human  hearts  in  one,  and  now  He  had  sent  this 
great  joy  to  her.  It  was  too  much  to  believe. 
If  the  cold,  hungrv,  desolate  man  who  sat  that 
night  in  darkness  that  might  be  felt  could  but 
have  had  a  glimpse  into  the  heart  of  this  maiden, 
why  then  the  darkness  would  have  been  light. 

The  Wilmers  were  about  to  continue  their 
journey ings  still  farther  west  in  the  region  of 
new  mines,  and  the  next  day  was  the  one  set  for 
their  departure.  Knid's  mother  was  not  a  little 
puzzled  at  her  daughter's  appearance  in  the 
morning.  Of  late  the  girl's  face  had  worn  an 
expression  of  weariness  and  inditference,  and 
sometimes  there  were  rigid  lines  like  one  who 
held  some  strong  emotion  in  check.  What 
was  her  mother's  surprise  that  Enid  seemed  to 
have  taken  on  r.gain  the  old  bloom  and  light 
and  joy,  gay  and  bright  as  a  creature  of  the  air. 
What  could  it  mean?  She  watched  her  fur- 
tively all  that  da^^  of  a  weary  journey  from  an 
opposite  seat  in  the  car  and  was  perplexed.     Not 

3^3 


ii 


rr 


m^ 


if 


I'  \ 


\    1 


I  I      ! 


!  !   -    1 


j.      I  I 


!.  iP 


^    /iFir|/  c/    t6e    IViUcrness, 

a  trace  of  fatigue  was  apparent.  She  seenietl 
absorbed  in  a  happy  dream  even  to  the  neglect 
of  the  grand  scenery  through  which  they  con- 
stantly passed. 

In  the  twilight,  though,  when  her  father  had 
gone  to  the  other  end  of  the  car  to  visit  with 
a  few  acquaintance,  Enid  slipped  into  the  seat 
beside  her  mother,  nestled  her  head  against  her, 
and  told  her  softly  the  contents  of  the  letter. 
Then  there  followed  a  long  whispered  confer- 
ence such  as  only  loving  mothers  and  daughters 
know  how  to  enjoy. 

It  would  seem  that  all  earthly  ecstasies  are 
doomed  to  be  short  lived.  It  was  but  a  day 
or  two  before  a  shadow  crossed  the  bright  sky. 
A  troublous  question  began  to  take  shape  in 
Enid's  mind.  Wayne  Pierson  was  not  a  Chris- 
tian. Could  she  belong  to  one  who  tlid  not 
belong  to  her  Lord.''  The  answer  to  her  own 
question  came  like  a  blow,  shattering  her  beau- 
tiful hopes.  She  could  not,  she  must  not. 
Then  she  flushed  as  she  reflected  that  he  had 
never  really  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  Perhaps 
he  never  would.  She  could  love  him  though  and 
pray  for  him  ;  then  lenve  it  all  with  the  Lord. 
Certainly,  she  should  do  nothing  that  her  Master 
could  not  approve,  whatever  sorrow  it  might 
bring  to  her  life.  To  this  resolution  she  settled 
down  and  was  still  happy  in  a  subdued  way 
until  another  awful  shadow  closed  about  her. 


1 1 


^     I 


A. 


■^■^ 


n   i^^ 


By  the    IVay  of  Peace. 

And  this  came  a  day  or  two  after  the  trav- 
ellers had  reached  a  point  where  they  were  to 
tarry  for  a  time.  Knid  had  come  in  from  the 
garden  of  the  friend's  house  where  thev  were 
visiting,  her  arms  filled  with  flowers  to  arrange 
in  vases.  Just  as  she  entered  the  room  noise- 
lessly, she  heard  her  father  pronounce  Wayne 
Pierson's  name,  and  saw  a  look  of  grief  and 
horror  on  her  mother's  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Please  tell  me  quick  !  "  the 
girl  exclaimed  before  they  were  aware  of  he- 
presence. 

The  father  and  mother  looked  at  each  other 
helplessly.     The  truth  must  come  out. 

*'  My  dear  child,"  the  father  said,  taking 
the  unwelcome  task  upon  himself,  "  we  have 
just  heard  some  bad  news  about  Wayne.  It 
seems  he  became  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
party  and  has  been  —  been  lost  several  days  in 
the  wilderness." 

He  could  not  tell  the  whole  terrible  truth  that 
he  had  been  lost  a  month  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  ray  of  hope  that  he  might  be  found  alive. 

The  stricken  girl,  with  a  flice  as  white  as  the 
lilies  she  held,  dropped  them  and  went  swiftly 
away  to  her  own  room. 


way 
er. 


3^^5 


m 


I  [■  i 


I    M 


I    ' 


;  I 


XXVII. 

'^  T'/ie  Lord  thy  God  hath  led  thee,'' 

IN  fiction  one  reads  or  used  to  read  a  good 
deal  about  broken  hearts,  but  the  truth 
has  always  been  that  in  real  life  hearts 
bear  terrible  strains  and  do  not  break. 
Enid  Wilmer  did  not  die ;  she  did  not  even 
sink  under  this  last  blow  so  peculiar  in  its 
nature,  and  so  fearfully  wearing  upon  a  sensi- 
tive organism.  Again  and  again,  as  the  weary 
hours  stretched  themselves  into  days,  she  told 
herself  that  if  there  had  only  been  a  grave  to 
weep  over  she  could  have  borne  it.  Rut  to 
have  him  lost  !  Was  ever  trial  like  unto  her 
trial  ? 

She  had  opportunity  to  test  whether  other 
forms  of  trial  were  less  hard  to  bear  than  this. 
The  day  came  when  the  papers  heralded  from 
one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other  that  the 
lost  was  found  !  Yet  the  very  next  line  of 
type  saw  to  it  that  no  one's  joy  should  be  pro- 
found. He  was  "  breathing,"  when  rescued, 
that  was  all.  Not  the  slightest  hope  of  a  rally. 
Physicians  everywhere  said  that  such  a  hope 

366 


\  good 
2  truth 

hearts 
ak. 
)t  even 

in  its 
I  sensi- 
:  weary 
le  told 
•ave  to 
But  to 
ito  her 

-  other 
m  this, 
i  from 
lat  the 
ine  of 
)e  pro- 
escued, 
a  rally. 
\  hope 


"  Thy   God  hath  led  thee''' 

was  an  absurdity.  Probably  before  that  paper 
went  to  press  the  end  had  come.  ''  Still,"  said 
the  types,  "it  is  a  comfort  that  the  rescuing 
party  will  be  able  to  bring  back  to  his  stricken 
friends  the  lifeless  body." 

IVas  it  a  "  comfort  "  ?  Enid  Wilmer  sat 
and  stared  at  the  paper  with  greai  tearless  eyes, 
and  wondered  vaguely,  as  though  she  were 
somebody  else,  whether  there  was  any  comfort 
to  be  had  from  it.  His  body  !  a  grave  !  She 
had  thought  that  she  could  bear  that.  Could 
she  ? 

What  days  were  those  that  dragged  their 
length  along,  measured  only  by  the  morning 
and  evening  mails  and  the  newspapers !  There 
were  times  in  her  life,  afterward,  when  Enid 
would  turn  faint  at  the  sight  of  the  mail  being 
suddenly  brought  in.  This  time  she  did  not 
faint.  She  seized  and  devoured  what  news  there 
was.  It  was  meagre  enough,  and  it  would  seem 
as  if  those  cruel  tvpes  had  forgotten  how  to  spell 
a  single  hopeful  word.  The  victim  was  simply 
breathing  ;  prolonging  the  awful  struggle;  "  ut- 
terly hopeless;"  —  "those  who  loved  him  could 
only  pray  for  his  speedy  release." 

Some  of  those  who  loved  him  could  not 
pray  for  anything^  in  words.  Enid  was  much 
on  her  knees,  and  she  knew  afterward  that 
she  prayed,  because  she  lived  ;  but  all  he\"  soul 
was  conscious  of  was  that  she  whispered    the 


T 


By    IV ay  of  the    IVildcrness. 


II 


J-: 


i 


I.' 


i  I 


,i1!    I 


1.! 


'  !  I 


name  "  Jesus  "  and  seemed  sometimes  to  rest 
her  head  upon  His  pitying  breast.  After  a 
time  there  came  the  hardest  strain  of  all.  Not 
only  the  local  papers  hut  the  great  city  dailies 
seemed  to  weary  of  their  theme.  They  had 
gleaned  every  possible  particular  of  the  tragedy, 
and  the  central  figure  in  it,  the  one  who  could 
have  told  so  much,  lay  in  a  hopeless  lethargy  ; 
apparently  there  was  no  change  from  day  to 
day,  and  none  could  be  hoped  for  save  that  one 
when  the  clay  should  cease  at  last  that  won- 
drous power  that  we  call  breathing.  Why 
should  the  types  repeat  each  day  the  same 
story  \  When  the  end  should  come,  they 
would  rouse  again  to  conspicuous  head-lines 
and  print  and  reprint  each  minutest  detail  ; 
meantime,  they  turned  to  other  and  more 
exciting  themes.  It  was  during  those  days  of 
awful  silence  that  Knid  began  to  feel  as  though 
she  must  pray  to  be  allowed  to  die. 

What  her  mother  was  to  her  throughout  that 
time,  Enid  could  never  tell.  The  nearest  that 
she  came  to  it  was  to  say  sometimes  with  a  look 
in  her  eyes  that  some  mothers  might  have 
envied,  "There  is  no  one  in  all  the  world  quite 
like  a  mother!     God  makes  them  understand." 

Yet  Mrs.  Wilmer  would  have  said  that  she 
did  nothing:  nothing  at  all.  Perhaps  that  was 
it.  She  did  not  attempt  doing  or  saying.  She 
made  not  the  slightest  effort  to  comfort  or  to 

368 


III!'! 
1  I  i  ji! . 


tess. 

3  rest 
fter   a 

Not 
dailies 
y  had 
igedy, 
could 
largy  ; 
lay  to 
at  one 

won- 

Why 
;  same 
,  they 
d-lines 
detail  ; 

more 
ays  of 
hough 

t  that 
st  that 
a  look 
have 
I  quite 
tand." 
lat  she 
lat  was 
She 
t  or  to 


*'  T/jy    God  hath  led  thee?'' 

condole  with  her  stricken  daughter.  There 
was  no  meaningless  attempt  to  make  that  'ook 
hopeful  which,  humanly  spei;ki!ig,  was  hope- 
less; such  an  eft'ort  is  on  the  face  of  it  so  often 
false  that  the  hungry  he:i'ts  of  those  stricken 
turn  away  as  from  a  nauseous  potion.  Mrs. 
Wilmer  simply  iiovered  about  her  daughter, 
caring  for  her  in  a  hutulred  little,  unofficious, 
nameless  ways,  shielding  her  as  by  a  tlivine 
instinct  from  eyes  and  speech  that  would  have 
probed  ;  bringing  her  a  flower  now  and  tlien, 
and  speaking  of  them  and  of  other  safe  com- 
monplaces in  a  quiet,  natural  tone  ;  not  de- 
manding that  Knid  should  be  interested  in  any 
of  these  matters,  but  simply  taking  it  tor 
granted  that  a  thread  of  interest  still  existed. 
And  Enid  was  grateful  to  her,  oh,  so  grateful 
for  her  silence  ! 

"  If  mamma  had  tried  to  comfort  me,"  she 
said  afterward,  "  I  know  I  should  have  gone 
insane  ;  but  she  didn't ;  she  just  held  me  close, 
and  waited." 

Speaking  of  flowers,  there  were  times  when 
Enid  hated  them.  They  belonged  to  the  days 
long  ago  when  she  was  young  and  lite  had 
looked  a  beautiful  thing.  She  had  a  spray  of 
evergreen,  small  and  shrivelled  and  turned  yel- 
low, "evergreen"  only  in  name;  but  nothing 
ever  grew,  nothing  ever  would  grow,  she 
believed,  more    precious  than   that.     It  made 


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II 


!    I 


By    U^ay  of  the    TVilderness. 

her  think  of  roses,  white  roses,  one  in  particu- 
lar;  how  eloquent  his  eyes  had  been  when  he 
hid  it  away  !  And  then,  for  a  while  she  would 
feel  that  she  hated  roses;  they  had  promised  so 
much  and  been  so  —  no,  they  had  not  been 
false,  that  one  had  not,  he  had  not ;  he  had 
simply  been  a  victim  of  circumstances,  and  she 
had  been  cold  and  cruel  during  all  that  time 
when  she  might  have  helped  him  !  Poor  little 
woman  !  fighting  with  life  and  its  problems  and 
its  caverns  there  in  her  youth  ! 

One  day  there  came  to  her  a  great  resolve. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  speaking  out  of  a 
silence  that  had  lasted  for  more  than  a  hour, 
and  had  been  of  such  a  nature  that  the  watch- 
ing mother  had  thought  well  not  to  disturb  it, 
"  I  must  go  there.  It  isn't  that  I  cannot  bear 
it  any  more  ;  it  is  that  I  ought  to  go.  Ought  ! 
do  you  understand,  mother  ?  Even  though 
he  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  he  may  be  able  to 
hear,  —  they  are  sometimes  ,  and  there  may  be 
no  one  near  him  who  will  speak  the  name 
*  Jesus '  in  his  ear.  Mother,  he  must  not  go 
down  into  that  silence  without  Him,  he  must 
not !  I  can  bear  all  the  rest,  but  not  that. 
God  does  not  want  me  to  bear  it ;  He  wants 
him  saved  ! " 

"  She  was  more  excited  than  I  have  seen 
her  before,"  said  the  mother,  telling  the 
father  about  it,  while  together  they  made  hur- 


mess. 

particu- 
n\\^\\  he 
e  would 
nised  so 
3t  been 
he  had 
and  she 
lat  time 
)or  little 
ems  and 

jsolve. 
It  of  a 
a  hour, 
z  watch- 
5turb  it, 
lot  bear 
Ought ! 
though 
able  to 
:  may  be 
le  name 
:  not  go 
he  must 
iot  that. 
le  wants 


"  Thy   God  hath  led  thee''' 


ive 

ing 


seen 

the 

ade  hur- 


ried preparations  for  a  journey.  "  I  felt  that 
to  humor  the  idea  was  the  only  way.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

The  father  drew  a  heavy  sigh  ;  it  was  hard 
to  have  his  one  flower  stricken,  but  he  answered 
promptly:  — 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  had  expected  that  —  wondered 
indeed  that  it  had  not  come  before.  It  is  not 
so  very  far  away,  and  fortunately  it  is  in  a 
region  that  tourists  visit,  so  you  will  have  the 
conveniences  of  modern  travel  about  you. 
The  worst  is  that  this  meeting  of  mine-owners 
prevents  my  going  with  you  ;  if  Enid  could 
have  waited  for  a  few  days  —  but  you  are  used 
to  travelling,  and  I  will  follow  you  so  soon  as 
the  meeting  is  over." 

It  was  all  arranged  very  quickly.  To  out- 
siders Mrs.  Wilmer  and  her  daughter  were  a 
couple  of  restless  tourists  who  could  not  be 
satisfied  long  in  any  place. 

"  They  can't  even  wait  until  he  can  go  with 
them  !  "  explained  one  of  the  lady  boarders  to 
another.  "  He  can't  go  until  after  some  big 
meeting  of  which  he  is  secretary,  and  it  is  to 
be  held  next  week;  but  my  young  lady  has 
taken  a  notion  to  go  now,  so  go  she  must. 
If  my  husband  had  a  wife  and  daughter  like 
that,  I  wonder  what  he  would  do  }  " 

It  was  not  a  very  long  journey  to  those 
accustomed  to  travel,  and  by  evening  or  the 


W^fW 


t  i ; ! 


Kb 


■MI.l 


M 


By    JV^ay  of  the    IVilderness, 

second  day  following  their  departure,  Mrs. 
Wilmer  and  Enid  were  sheltered  in  a  boarding 
house  that  had  been  recommended  to  Mr. 
Wilmer,  and  was  situated  in  as  quiet  and  lovely 
a  region  as  any  they  had  yet  seen.  They  had 
learned  from  the  papers  that  the  sick  man  had 
been  brought  by  easy  stages  to  a  town  within 
three  miles  of  this  village,  that  the  physicians 
who  were  attending  him  might  be  able  to 
reach  him  daily. 

During  the  last  two  hours  of  their  journey, 
Mrs.  Wilmer  felt  that  she  had  reason  to  regret 
their  hasiy  departure  without  her  husband's 
strength  and  judgment  to  lean  upon.  As  they 
neared  the  place  where  they  might  expect  to 
hear  news  of  the  sick  one,  if  indeed  he  were 
yet  living,  Enid's  nervous  excitement  increased 
to  such  a  degree  that  her  mother  was  seriously 
alarmed.  Every  time  the  car  door  opened, 
she  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  trembling.  Yet 
her  nervousness  took  the  form  of  shrinking 
from  news. 

"  Don't  as.c,  mother  !  "  she  said  with  a  tone 
that  had  almost  a  command  in  it;  "don't  ask 
anybody.  Wait !  let  us  get  under  cover  some- 
where before  we  hear." 

And  then  the  mother  fell  to  wondering  how 
she  should  manage  the  news.  He  must  be 
living,  else  the  papers  would  be  full  of  the 
story,   but  suppose   the    end  was  just  at  the, 

37^ 


ness. 

,  Mrs. 
)arding 
o    Mr. 

lovely 
ley  had 
an  had 

within 
ysicians 
able    to 

ourney, 
D  regret 
sband's 
As  they 
:pect  to 
le  were 
icreased 
riously 
pened, 
Yet 
inking 

a  tone 
n't  ask 
r  some- 


1 


;  how 

■lust   be 

of  the 

at   the. 


^^Thy   God  hath  led  thee^'' 

door  .^  How  should  she  tell  Enid?  How 
prepare  her  for  the  ordeal  ? 

Like  many  things  for  which  we  try  to  plan, 
nothing  happened  as  she  had  expected.  News 
came  to  them  suddenly,  without  time  for  prep- 
aration. Mrs.  Wilmer  had  stepped  into  the 
hall  to  wait  for  a  messenger,  and  had  left  the 
door  ajar  because  she  had  a  nervous  fear  of 
leaving  Enid  alone  even  for  a  moment,  and 
these  sentences  floated  up  to  them,  spoken  in 
clear,  voluble  tones  :  — 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is  getting  well.  It  seems 
almost  a  miracle,  doesn't  it  ?  You  know  he 
was  thirty-seven  days  in  that  awful  wilderness  ! 
Only  think  of  it!" 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  he  lay  at  death's  door,  as  you 
may  say,  for  I  don't  know  how  many  days, 
but  he  is  gaining  fast  now.  The  doctor  who 
attends  him  was  in  to  see  my  auntie  to-day,  and 
I  asked  him  all  about  it.  He  says  the  young 
man  sat  up  for  several  hours  yesterday,  and  is 
improving  steadily." 

Mrs.  Wilmer  was  back  with  her  hand  on 
the  door  knob  long  before  these  sentences  were 
concluded,  but  Enid  had  heard  the  voice ;  she 
raised  her  hand  with  a  gesture  for  silence  and 
listened  as  for  her  life  to  every  word.  Then 
she  spoke  quietly  :  — 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  mamma,  I  am  not 
going  to  faint,  I'm  going  to  —  to  try  to  behave 

373 


t!  ■ .  '•,  i 


wmmma 


^^^m 

^^H 

^1 

'■ 

1  .' 

1        '    \L\ 

^  ■i,.;.' 

1            1.4' 

'  1 

1  '^Ih  '^i  :.'' 

By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

myself  now.  Oh,  mother  !  "  And  the  long 
pent-up  excitement  vented  itself  in  a  burst  of 
tears. 

Mr.  Pierson  and  his  son  were  spending  their 
last  evening  together.  The  time  had  come 
when  the  man  of  affairs  could  not  longer  delay 
his  departure  ;  two  telegrams  received  that  day 
had  helped  him  to  realize  the  need  for  haste. 
There  was  really  no  longer  any  reason  for 
delay.  Wayne's  strides  back  toward  health  were 
astonishing  his  physicians  as  much  as  anything 
about  the  strange  experience  had  done ;  but 
tl  e  father,  having  found  his  lost  son  in  more 
senses  than  one,  was  loath  to  part  from  him 
again.  Still,  Aunt  Crete  was  there,  and  Wayne 
was  coming  home  as  soon  as  it  should  seem 
wise  to  undertake  the  journey,  and  the  busy 
lawyer  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  told  himself 
that  he  must  go  away  from  paradise  out  into 
the  world  again. 

On  this  evening  that  he  had  meant  should 
be  a  very  pleasant  one,  his  face  was  shadowed. 
He  had  been  reading  a  letter  from  his  wife, 
and  it  had  that  in  it  which  troubled  him.  Dur- 
ing the  weeks  that  Wayne  had  been  able  to 
visit  and  to  listen  to  reading,  his  father  had  fallen 
into  the  habit  of  reading  aloud  to  him  large 
portions  of  his  letters  from  home.  His  wife 
used  a  ready  pen,  and  her  descriptions  of  home 
experiences  were  racy  and  enjoyable.     Wayne 

374 


wss. 

long 
rst  of 

y  their 
come 
■  delay 
?X  day 
haste. 
Dti    for 
:h  were 
ything 
I ;    but 
1  more 
m  him 
Wayne 
d  seem 
e  busy 
limself 
ut  into 

should 
dowed. 
is  wife, 
Dur- 
able to 
d  fallen 
m  large 
[is  wife 
f  home 
Wayne 


"  Thy   God  hath  led  thee'' 

had  himself  asked  for  news  from  home,  and 
had  astonished  and  delighted  his  father's  heart 
by  remarking  cheerily  that  "mother"  was  a 
capital  letter-writer.  In  truth,  the  young  man, 
in  the  abundant  leisure  which  awaits  the  conva- 
lescent, had  gone  all  over  that  ground  and,  as 
he  expressed  it,  "  had  it  out  with  himself" 
Looked  at  in  the  clear  light  of  his  recent  expe- 
riences he  was  enabled  to  tell  himself  positively 
and  sincerely  that  he  had  been  unjust  to  his 
stepmother.  He  had  accused  her  of  coming 
between  himself  and  his  father ;  and,  in  the 
sense  that  he  had  meant  it,  this  was  simply  not 
true.  She  had  perhaps  not  wasted  much  love 
upon  him,  but  had  he  given  her  any  reason  for 
loving,  even  for  liking  him  ?  Holding  his 
enlightened  conscience  steadily  to  the  work,  he 
was  able  to  see  that  from  almost  the  first  he 
had  allowed  his  dislike  for  the  boy,  Leon,  to 
prejudice  him  against  his  mother.  Leon  had  un- 
doubtedly worked  him  mischief,  and  had  meant 
to ;  and  the  mother  had  been  faithful  to  her 
boy.  Why  not  ?  He  would  have  despised  her 
if  she  had  not  been.  True  she  had  been  utterly 
blind  to  his  faults,  but  that  was  not  so  hopeless 
a  trait  in  a  mother  as  to  be  beyond  excuse.  He 
could  see  now  that  she  had  tried,  with  the  light 
she  had,  and  with  the  prejudices  she  had 
against  him,  —  faithfully  nursed  by  Leon,  —  to 
be  good  to  him. 

375 


1^^ 


1 


f  ! 


'■^ 


L:  iiiih 


!;:'|i* 


By    Jl'\jy  of  the    IVilderness. 

"  She  has  really  done  her  best,"  was  this 
young  man's  honest  conviction  after  long 
thought.  "It  wasn't  my  mother's  best — how 
could  it  have  been  ?  But  I  sincerely  believe 
it  was  hers,  and  if  I  had  but  known  enough 
to  meet  her  halfway,  things  might  have  been 
—  better  than  they  were." 

After  that,  he  electrified  his  father  by  asking 
in  cordial  tone :  "  Is  that  thick  letter  from 
mother  ?  What's  the  news  at  home  ?  "  And 
that  had  opened  the  way  for  the  readings 
from  those  thick  letters,  that  had  drawn  from 
Wayne  the  gracious  compliment,  and  had  made 
his  father  happier  than  he  had  been  since  his 
son  was  a  child. 

Mrs.  Pierson  on  her  part  was  certainly  doing 
"  her  best."  Her  letters,  the  father  told  his 
son,  had  been  overflowing  with  sympathy  and 
sorrow  for  him  while  the  strain  was  heavy ; 
ifgiiui  and  ^o-ain  she  had  expressed  the  wish 
that  she  were  there  toTielp  .4;aj;e  for  the  sick 
one.  Then  as  the  anxiety  lesseli??!'''Bi»c  '^^d 
grown  cheerful  and  hopeful  even  before  others 
had  dared  to  be  so.  And  then  she  had  begun 
to  talk  about  the  home  coming  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

"  Tell  Wayne  he  has  no  idea  what  a  good 
nurse  I  am,"  she  v/rote.  "  I  had  a  long  experi- 
ence in  caring  for  my  dear  father ;  I  am  pre- 
pared to  read  to  him,  or  write  letters  for  him, 


as    a 


^^Thy    God  hath  led  thee. 


55 


or  make  better  invalid  dishes  to  tempt  his  appe- 
tite than  he  ever  had  before.  My  powers  in 
that  line  are  not  half  appreciated." 

But  the  thick  letter  that  had  arrived  that  day 
had  shadowed  the  flither's  face ;  he  had  not 
offered  to  read  any  of  it  aloud  ;  and  Wayne 
had  wondered,  and  queried  whether  his  father 
would  like  it  if  he  should  ask  for  it. 

Here  is  one  of  the  paragraphs  that  had 
troubled  the  father  :  — 

"  We  have  so  long  had  thought  only  for 
Wayne,  that  it  seems  hardly  proper  to  begin 
about  anything  else  ;  but  matters  have  not 
meanwhile  been  standing  still.  I  think  I  may 
tell  you  that  my  long-cherished  hopes  in  regard 
to  dear  Leon  are  to  be  realized.  You  know 
how  earnestly  I  have  desired  that  he  should 
choose  the  daughter  of  my  dear  old  school 
friend  for  a  wife,  and  he  writes  me  at  last  that 
it  is  a  positive  engagement.  He  has  been 
spending  a  week  with  them  and  the  matter  is 
all  settled,  and  a  speedy  marriage  is  being 
planned  for.  In  truth,  Leon  says  that  they 
are  only  waiting  until  you  get  home  and  the 
house  has  settled  down  into  its  natural  state 
before  he  will  be  ready  to  bring  his  bride  for 
a  father's  and  mother's  blessing.  He  says  some 
very  sweet  things  about  what  a  father  you  have 
been  to  him,  which  I  shall  not  tell  you  for  fear 
of  your  being  puffed  up.      But  1  am  sure,  dear. 


.{ 


vrw^"^ 


>!l 


I    ■  I 


i  1 


By    IVay  of  the    IVildcrness. 

you  hav^e  never  known  how  fully  Leon  appre- 
ciates your  love  and  care.  He  writes  also  that 
he  has  given  up  all  his  '  harum  scarum  '  ways 
and  is  going  to  'bone  down  to  business'  in  a 
way  that  will  delight  your  heart.  I  am  sure, 
now  that  your  soul  is  throbbing  with  gratitude 
for  the  restoration  of  your  own  dear  boy,  you 
will  be  ready  to  sympathize  with  me  in  this 
new  hope  I  have  for  Leon.  A  few  words  of 
that  kind  mean  so  much  from  him." 

There  was  more  of  it,  but  the  father  had  not 
the  heart  to  read  further.  He  did  not  believe 
in  Leon  as  his  wife  did.  He  had  only  too  good 
reason  to  doubt  his  sincerity  in  anything ;  the 
later  years  of  his  life  had  been  spent  in  trying 
to  shield  his  wife  from  a  knowledge  that  could 
bring  her  only  pain.  But  it  was  not  this 
thought  that  troubled   him   now. 

He  had  heard  from  his  son's  lips  the  story 
of  poor  Sarah,  the  blacksmith's  brave,  faithful 
daughter — and  if  father  and  mother  Thompson 
could  have  heard  the  story  as  he  told  it,  they 
would  have  respected  even  more  the  man 
whom  they  looked  upon  as  almost  their  son. 
Mr.  Pierson  had  understood  better  than  his 
son  had  imagined  that  he  could.  And  in  the 
glow  of  his  gratitude  for  the  sympathy  bestowed, 
Wayne  had  gone  a  step  further  and  mentioned 
Enid  Wilmer.  Of  course  there  could,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  be  very  little  indeed  said  on 

378 


il: 


ncss. 


appre- 
;o  that 
ways 
in  a 
I  sure, 
ititude 
y,  you 
in  this 
rds  of 

ad  not 
believe 
3  good 
g;  the 
trying 
:  could 
)t    this 


ifi 


(( 


Thy   God  hath  led  theer 


such  a  subject ;  and  he  was  by  no  means  sure 
that  that  Httle  was  understood.  But  it  was  the 
memory  of  it  that  had  shadowed  the  fither's 
face,  ar.d  caused  him  to  thrust  the  letter  hastily 
into  his  pocket  and  read  no  word  of  it  to 
Wayne. 


t  story 
faithful 
mpson 
t,  they 
s  man 
ir  son. 
an   his 

in  the 
;towed, 
itioned 

in  the 
;aid  on 


379 


rw 


mm 


XXVIII. 


■1: 


j      i 

h 


V 


''  By  a  way  that  they  know  not,'' 

BUT  later  in  the  evening,  less  than  half 
an  hour,  indeed,  before  that  train  would 
carry  him  away,  the  father  resolved 
upon  what  he  ought  to  do.  Wayne 
had  not  spoken  plainly;  perhaps  it  was  because 
nothing  was  plain.  There  was,  possibly,  only 
a  vague,  misty  dream  of  a  possible  future.  It 
might  not  have  taken  strong  hold  in  any  way. 
There  might  be  time  to  prevent  his  dreaming 
over  it  and  fixing  the  fancy  in  his  heart  to  bear 
more  pain.  If  he  could  save  the  boy  an  hour 
of  pain  in  the  future,  shouldn't  he  do  it? 

The  longer  he  thought  about  it  the  more  cure 
he  felt  that  nothing  very  serious  could  have 
happened  as  yet ;  the  other  experience  had 
been  too  recent.  Which  statement  will  show 
you  how  well  the  father  understood  the  situa- 
tion !  He  determined  to  ignore  that  little  hint 
of  Wayne's;  to  act  as  though  he  had  not  heard 
i<-,  and  to  give  him  the  word  simply  as  an  item 
of  news.  So  he  said,  with  as  easy  an  air  as  hs" 
could  assume :  — 

380 


^^U\iy  that  they  know  }iot.^'* 


1 1 


have 

had 

show 


"  B\'  the  wav,  Wayne,  I  have  a  hit  of  home 
news  tor  you.  I  know,  my  boy,  better  than 
you  think  I  do,  what  a  trial  one  person  con- 
nected with  us  has  been  to  you:  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  understand  why  I  cannot  speak  of  it 
more  plainly." 

Wayne  turned  sympathetic  eyes  upon  his 
father,  and  bowed  his  head.  "  I  know,  father, 
of  course  you  cannot;  never  mind.  We  are 
not  children  any  more.  I  shall  not  let  it 
rankle." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  boy,  I  had  hoped  to 
have  it  all  —  very  different.  Well — Leon  is 
to  be  married  now,  it  seems.  I  hope  that  will 
do  something  toward  making  a  man  of  him  ; 
marriage  sometimes  does.  His  mother  is  glad 
over  it.  You  may  have  known  that  she  has 
cherished  the  hope  for  years  that  he  and  the 
daughter  of  her  old  friend,  Mrs.  Wilmer,  would 
live  their  lives  together,  and  it  seems  that  is  to 
be.  His  mother  writes  that  they  only  await 
our  getting  settled  at  home  and  all  well  again, 
before  there  will  be  a  wedding.  Hark  !  that's 
the  whistle  of  the  train  at  the  other  station, 
isn't  it?  I  shall  just  have  time  to  make  it. 
Well,  my  boy,  good-by." 

He  prided  himself  on  the  skill  with  which 
he  had  accomplished  it,  and  rejoiced  in  the 
hope  that  his  fears  had  been  groundless. 
Wayne  had  taken  the  information  with  utmost 

38' 


mn 


By    JVay  of  the    ll^ildcrness. 


% 


ri       V!: 


HI'' 


I 


Jt 


J  •'■ 


calmness.      That    little    hint    had   not    meant, 
after  all,  what  he  had  fancied. 

This  is,  perhaps,  as  much  as  we  really  know, 
a  great  deal  of  the  time,  concerning  the  inner 
life  of  those  with  whom  we  are  most  closely 
associated.  Outward  calm,  long  years  of  expe- 
rience had  schooled  Wayne  Pierson  to  observe. 
The  tumult  that  raged  within  would  be  hard  to 
picture  in  words.  Importunately  it  was  night  and 
he  could  be  alone.  Aunt  Crete  came  tapping 
at  the  door  soon  after  she  heard  his  father's 
rapid  retreating  footsteps,  to  know  if  she  could 
do  anything  for  the  comfort  oi  her  dear  boy. 
He  answered  her  in  his  usual  quiet  voice,  then 
locked  his  door  and  came  face  to  face  with  that 
battle  that  he  had  believed  there  was  no  need 
to  fight.  As  often  as  he  had  thought  of  Leon 
Hamilton  during  his  convalescence,  and  the 
thought  of  him  had  not  come  often,  he  had 
felt,  as  has  already  been  intimated,  that  the 
subject  was  not  of  sufficient  importance  to  be 
dwelt  upon.  Tremendous  issues  had  inter- 
vened and  filled  his  mind,  and  henceforth  Leon 
Hamilton  and  his  movements  could  be  viewed 
with  indifference.  So  he  had  fondly  believed. 
He  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  human  h'^art  does 
not  put  aside  its  life-long  besetments  so  easily. 
He  had  yet  to  discover  that  he  was  to  be  called 
upon  to  feel  something  besides  indifference  for 
his    life-long   enemy.     Somewhat   to  his   after 

382 


\\ 


meant, 

J  know, 
e  inner 
closely 
>f  expe  - 
►bserve. 
hard  to 
Tht  and 
tapping 
father's 
e  could 
ar  boy. 
:e,  then 
ith  that 
lo  need 
if  Leon 
nd  the 
he  had 
hat  the 
e  to  be 
I  inter- 
h  Leon 
viewed 
eiieved. 
irt  does 
3  easily. 
le  called 
snce  for 
is   after 


^^IVay  that  they  know  not?'' 

astonishment,  the  strongest  emotion  roused 
within  him  by  his  father's  item  of  news  was 
that  of  fierce  unreasoning  hatred  toward  his 
stepbrother.  1'he  whole  bitter  story  of  his 
life  of  trial  and  pain  and  peril  seemed  to  roll 
itself  before  him  like  a  panorama,  with  always 
Leon  Hamilton  as  the  power  behind  the  scenes. 
And  now  to  add  the  last  stroke  !  That  fair, 
pure  life  to  be  sacrificed  to  him  I 

Was  there  room  for  other  feeling  than 
hatred  .^  He  writhed  in  agony  upon  his  bed, 
and  felt  the  current  of  passion  all  the  more 
fiercely  because  he  gave  no  voice  to  it,  but 
repeated  it  in  his  heart  that  he  hated,  hated, 
HATED  that  man,  and  had  a  right  to  hate  him  ; 
and  that  a  God  of  truth  and  justice  ought  not 
to  permit  him  longer  to  pollute  the  earth. 

Suddenly  came  a  voice  not  from,  outside,  not 
audible  to  other  than  himself,  but  strangely, 
solemnly  distinct  to  him,  "  He  that  hateth  his 
brother  is  a  murderer  !  "  It  would  not  do  to 
hide  behind  the  weak  little  subterfuge  which 
had  sheltered  him  as  a  child,  that  Leon  Hamil- 
ton was  no  brother  of  his.  He  had  grown 
wiser  in  some  things,  at  least,  and  had  begun 
to  have  some  faint  idea  of  what  God  means  by 
that  word  "  brother."  It  was  one  of  the  names 
that  had  been  applied  to  Jesus  Christ,  "  The 
Elder  Brother." 

The  voice  sobered  him  ;   not  with  a  sense  of 

383 


Is*;  ' 

1 

WuiJ 


itf^^i:  i" 


«n 


h'r 


;  !  I' 


il  iVl' 


.1   if 
"I    ll 

I: 


-i  ^  ■ 


"? 


''V  i 


By    U^cry  of  the    JVilderness, 

fear,  but  of  humiliation.  His  brother,  his 
"  Elder  Brother,"  what  had  He  not  borne 
from  him  ?  What  had  He  not  forgiven  him. 
"  Is  the  disciple  greater  than  his  Lord  ? " 
Bible  words  learned  long  ago  and  long  ago 
forgotten  trooped  back  and  hovered  about 
him.  It  was  a  long,  fierce  battle,  the  fiercest 
by  far  of  his  stormy  life.  When  it  was  over 
he  was  physically  spent,  so  that  he  was  glad  to 
lie  in  utmost  physical  quiet.  But  there  was 
mental  quiet  as  well.  Wayne  Pierson  had 
tested  severely  the  power  of  Jesus  Christ  to 
conquer  the  fiercest  passions  of  the  human 
heart  and  had  proved  Him  conqueror.  He 
who  is  Himself  the  Truth  had  forced  this 
lover  o^  truth  and  honor  to  speak  naked  truth 
to  his  own  soul.  It  had  not  been  enough  for  him 
to  say  that  he  would  forgive  Leon  Hamilton  ; 
stern  conscience,  that  had  waited  for  its  hour, 
came  forward  and  insisted  upon  his  owning 
that  there  was  not  so  much  to  forgive  as  he  had 
all  his  life  indulged  himself  in  believing.  Shorn 
of  heroics  and  put  into  everyday  plain  talk, 
what  was  the  case  ? 

Leon  Hamilton  had  been  an  untruthful, 
coarse,  selfish,  heedless  boy ;  yes,  he  had  ;  but 
there  had  been  other  such  boys  who  had  been 
borne  with,  and  suffered  for,  and  watched  over, 
and  won.  If  he,  Wayne  Pierson,  had  been  the 
sort  of    loy  he  might  have  been,  the  kind  his 

384 


mess. 

:her,   his 
)t    borne 
^en  him. 
Lord  ?  " 
ong  ago 
d    about 
I  fiercest 
was  over 
s  glad  to 
here  was 
■son    had 
Christ  to 
I    human 
ror.     He 
reed  this 
s.ed  truth 
h  for  him 
amilton  ; 
Its  hour, 
owning 
is  he  had 
.    Shorn 
ain  talk, 

itruthful, 
lad  ;  but 
lad  been 
led  over, 
been  the 
;  kind  his 


^^JVay  that  they  know  not^ 

mother  had  prayed  that  he  might  be,  could 
he  not  have  won  his  stepbrother  long  ago  ? 
Later  in  life,  what  had  Leon  done  but  act  out 
the  nature  that  he  had  allowed  to  develop  ? 
And  what  had  Wayne  Pierson  done  but  much 
the  same  ?  That  the  two  natures  had  devel- 
oped differently  was  owing  to  a  thousand  subtle 
influences,  perhaps,  over  which  neither  boy  had 
much  control.  That  they  might  both  have 
chosen  the  Elder  Brother  and  been  guided  by 
Him  into  other  lives  was  solemnly  true.  In- 
stead, the  lives  of  both  had,  in  the  sight  of 
God,  been  a  long  series  of  failures. 

As  for  the  item  of  news  that  had  brought 
about  such  a  storm  of  passion,  his  conscience 
asked  him  if  it  was  strictly  honest  to  blame  Leon 
Hamilton  for  that.  Ought  he  to  be  blamed 
for  admiring  and  reaching  after  and  longing  to 
win  such  a  woman  os  Enid  Wilmer  ?  If  he 
had  honorably  wooed  and  won  her,  if  she  had 
actually  chosen  him,  could  he  be  blamed  for 
that  ?  It  was  bewildering,  it  was  incomprehen- 
sible, he  found  it  impossible  to  reconcile  his 
knowledge  of  the  girl  with  such  a  state  of 
things,  but  there  could  of  course  be  no  mis- 
take this  time ;  and,  after  all,  it  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  question  at  issue.  What  had  to 
be  decided  was  whether  he,  Wayne  Pierson, 
was  an  out  and  out  follower  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  or  whether  he  meant  only  to  follow  Him 


#1*''"^* 


i 


H 


4  J 


ip 


Ml 


i    I 


i|(i 


r 


w 


By    JVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

when  the  way  was  smooth  and  there  were  no 
crosses  to  be  seen  ahead. 

It  was,  as  has  been  said,  a  fierce  battle;  but 
in  the  end  Wayne  Pierson  prayed  for  the  soul 
of  his  stepbrother,  that  it  might  be  redeemed 
to  God  ;  that  he  might  learn  to  think  of  and 
speak  of  him  as  his  brother,  and  that  if  such 
were  indeed  the  will  of  God  —  he  paused  long 
before  that  sentence,  waiting,  on  his  knees,  then 
he  finished  it  —  he  might  learn  to  think  of 
Enid  Wilmer  as  his  sister ! 

"  I'm  afraid  you  did  not  sleep  at  all  last 
night,"  Aunt  Crete  said,  scanning  him  closely, 
and  speaking  anxiously.  "  I  thought  I  heard 
you  moving  about  once ;  I  sat  up  and  listened, 
and  had  a  mind  to  come  in.  You  look  like 
a  ghost.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Didn't  you 
sleep  well  } " 

"  Yes,"  said  Wayne,  with  a  smile  as  quiet  as 
the  morning ;  "  I  was  late  in  sleeping,  but  I 
slept  well  at  last ;  unusually  well.  I  dreamed 
of  my  mother  :  I  thought  she  came  and  kissed 
m's;  good  night  as  she  used,  and  called  me  her 
dear  boy." 

Aunt  Crete  was  puzzled  and  troubled.  What 
should  keep  her  boy  awake  half  the  night  if 
he  was  doing  well  in  every  way  ?  She  asked  a 
number  of  questions,  judiciously,  through  the 
day,  and  learned  some  things  and  guessed  at 
others.      Before    night   she    had    heard    what 

386 


mess. 


vere  no 

le ;  but 
he  soul 
deemed 
of  and 
if  such 
;ed  long 
jes,  then 
hink  of 

all  last 
closely, 
I  heard 
listened, 
)ok:  like 
In't  you 


quiet  as 

,  but  I 

reamed 

d  kissed 

me  her 

What 
night  if 
asked  a 
ugh  the 
essed  at 
d    what 


^^IVay  that  they  know  not^ 

there  was  to  tell  about  the  piece  of  news  from 
"  home." 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  "  she  said  to  herself;  "  if  a 
hundred  and  fifty  Leon  Hamiltons  should 
come  to  me  with  such  a  story  as  that,  I  should 
have  sense  enough  not  to  believe  it.  Men  are 
all  fools  !  '  Leon  Hamilton,'  indeed  !  just  as 
though  I  didn't  know  Enid  Wilmer  : 

But  she  said  nothing  of  this  to  Wayne.  In 
the  course  of  the  next  few  days,  she  made  cer- 
tain astonishing  discoveries.  During  the  long 
daily  naps  prescribed  for  the  invalid,  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  occupying  herself  with  the  local 
newspapers,  gleaning  items  of  interest  to  read 
to  Wayne  afterward.  Among  other  matters, 
she  was  sure  to  glance  over  the  list  of  arrivals, 
especially  from  the  East ;  there  was  always  the 
possibility  of  finding  a  name  that  would  interest 
Wayne.  What  she  found  on  this  particular 
morning  made  her  utter  an  exclamation  half- 
way divided  between  astonishment  and  exulta- 
tion. Then  she  grew  thoughtful,  and  put  on 
what  Wayne  would  have  called  her  *' scheming 
face."  Presently,  she  went  in  search  of  a 
woman  who  she  was  sure  would  be  informed, 
and  learned  many  items  of  interest  concerning 
the  pretty  village  only  three  miles  away  from 
them. 

"It  is  a  village  of  boarding-houses,"  said  the 
lady,  "  they  say  that  every  house  in  the  place 

3^7 


.fc.-; 


h' 


]  i 


111 


By    IVay  of  the    JVilderness. 

is  open  to  travellers,  and  people  seem  to  be 
charmed  who  go  there ;  they  stay  on  and  on. 
I  have  often  thought  of  trying  it  myself." 

Two  days  thereafter,  while  Wayne  went  to 
drive  with  the  doctor,  Aunt  Crete  herself  took 
a  drive  about  which  she  said  nothing  whatever 
to  Wayne.  Following  that  trip  came  a  period 
of  dissatisfaction  with  her  surroundings;  noth- 
ing in  the  house,  from  the  culinary  department 
to  the  location  of  their  rooms  with  reference  to 
the  prevailing  winds,  quite  suited  her.  Finally 
came  her  plan.  She  had  heard  of  rooms  that 
had  just  been  vacated  in  a  lovely  little  town 
only  three  miles  away.  Everybody  said  it  was 
a  charming  part  of  the  country,  and  the  doctor 
declared  that  he  could  not  too  highly  approve 
of  Aunt  Crete's  plan  to  remove  there  for  a 
week  or  two,  and  give  Wayne  the  benefit  of 
real  country  air  and  food,  preparatory  to  his 
long  journey  homeward.     Wouldn't  he  like  it ' 

Wayne  would  like  anything  in  the  world 
that  this  blessed  auntie  of  his  wished  to  do. 
Therefore  it  came  to  pass  that  before  the  father 
had  been  many  days  at  home,  his  son  was 
moved  and  settled  in  a  comfortable  house  exactly 
opposite  the  one  in  which  F^nid  Wilmer  and 
her  mother  were  boarding ;  and  the  two  young 
people  were  as  utterly  ignorant  of  each  other's 
nearness  as  though  there  was  no  such  science 
as  Telepathy  in  existence. 

388 


1 


rness. 

\  to  be 
and  on. 
f." 

went  to 
elf  took 
i^hatever 
I  period 
; ;  noth- 
)artment 
;rence  to 
Finally 

)ms  that 
tie  town 
id  it  was 
e  doctor 
approve 
re  for   a 
nefit  of 
y  to  his 
like  it ' 
lie  world 
to  do. 
re  father 
3on    was 
e  exactly 
Tier  and 
o  young 
other's 
science 


^^IVay  that  they  know  not.'''' 

Enid,  be  it  understood,  had  no  sooner 
learned  that  the  man  whom  she  supposed 
dying  was  getting  well,  than  a  painful  timidity 
overtook  her.  She  would  even  ha'  c  turned  and 
fled  back  over  the  hundreds  of  miles  she  had 
come,  but  for  the  fact  that  her  mother  proved 
obstinate.  Mrs.  Wilmer  had  borne  with  every 
passing  fancy  of  the  girl's  while  she  was  in 
trouble,  now  it  was  her  turn.  It  was  pleasant 
there,  and  quiet;  and  they  were  as  unknown 
to  and  as  far  from  intruding  upon  Wayne 
Pierson  —  since  she  chose  to  have  it  so — a'' 
though  they  were  three  hundred  miles  away 
from  him  instead  of  three;  and  there  was  no 
good  reason  why  they  should  not  wait  there 
for  the  father,  as  had  been  planned.  She  could 
journey  without  him  when  it  was  necessary,  but 
when  it  was  not,  why  —  and  she  held  her 
ground.     So  they  waited. 

They  went,  one  evening,  mother  and  daugh- 
ter, to  the  little  mission  chapel,  just  around 
the  corner  from  them,  to  the  prayer-meeting. 
They  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  home 
missionary,  who  was  doing  faithful  work  in  a 
discouraging  corner  of  the  vineyard,  and  were 
minded  to  help  him  if  they  could.  And  to 
that  same  prayer-meeting  went  Aunt  Crete  and 
her  nephew.  She,  because  it  was  as  natural  for 
her  to  gravitate  toward  an  open  chapel  door 
and  a  summoning  bell  as  it  was  to  breathe,  and 

389 


raT-! 


^ 


i  I 


.;? 


By    li^ay  of   the    JVilderness. 

he,  because  he  knew  that  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  should,  within  church  walls,  meet  his 
kindred,  brothers  in  Christ,  and  he  thirsted  for 
their  company. 

Enid  and  her  mother  came  in  late,  having 
mistaken  the  hour,  and  sat  near  the  door ;  and 
Enid  studied  the  back  of  Wayne's  head  and 
wondered  at  the  unaccountable  likeness  to  the 
back  of  another  head  that  she  knew.  And 
then,  suddenly,  all  her  pulses  went  to  throb- 
bing, and  the  room  seemed  to  whirl  in  a 
strange  dance  before  her ;  the  man  with  the 
familiar  head  had  risen  and  was  praying,  and 
his  voice,  oh,  his  voice  I  She  looked  at  her 
mother ;  was  she  going  insane  after  all  ?  But 
her  mother  smiled  on  her  —  albeit  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  —  and  whispered  as  she  bowed 
her  head  :  — 

"It  is  he,  darling;  just  himself,  and  not  his 
spirit." 

They   walked    home    together,   of    course. 


They    met   decorously 


after 


the    meeting,   as 


people  should  who  are  tourists  and  meet  by 
accident  before  others  in  a  strange  town. 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  was  all  Enid  said  as  she 
took  his  outstretched  hand,  and  he  said,  "  Did 
you  come  down  in  one  of  those  golden  chariots 
that  I  saw  at  sunset  ?  " 

On  the  way  home  they  talked  the  merest 
commonplaces.      Yes,  they  were  staying  here, 


ness. 

:ime  in 
eet  his 
ted  for 

having 
r ;  and 
ad  and 

to  the 
,     And 

throb- 
'l  in  a 
■ith  the 


ng, 


and 


at  her 
?     But 

;re  were 
bowed 

not  his 

course, 
ting,  as 
|ieet  by 

as  she 
,  "  Did 

:hariots 


merest 
Ig  here, 


^^IVay  that  they  know  not!''' 

she  and  her  mother,  waiting  for  papa  who  was 
detained  by  some  tiresome  mine  business. 

Oh,  yes,  he  was  gaining  very  rapidly  now; 
hoped  to  be  able  to  go  hom.e  in  a  few  days. 
Mrs.  Wihiier,  being  introduced  to  Aunt  Crete, 
walked  discreetly  by  her  sidi^  '  ilking  common- 
places, and  aware  that  she  was  near  enough  to 
hear  anything  that  the  other  "iwo  might  be  say- 
ing. They  reached  Mrs.  Wilmer's  house  first, 
and  both  accepted  her  playful  invitation  to  stop 
and  rest  before  they  crossed  the  street. 

Then,  once  in  the  pleasant  parlor,  a  little 
removed  from  the  two  elder  ladies,  Wayne, 
who  had  determined  to  have  no  more  misun- 
derstandings in  life  for  lack  of  straightforward 
speech,  went  directly  to  the  point. 

"  Enid,  I  am  not  going  to  feign  ignorance  or 
wait  for  confidences.  I  have  heard  through  my 
people  at  home  of  your  approaching  marriage; 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  at  once  that  my  desire 
for  your  future  happiness  is  sincere,  and  that  I 
intend  to  be  as  true  a  brother,  not  onlv  to  you 
but  to  him,  as  God  will  help  me  to  become." 

He  never  forgot  the  look  in  her  great  brown 
eyes  that  seemed  to  widen  and  deepen  under 
his  rapid  speech,  nor  the  words  in  which  she 
answered  him  :  — 

"They  told  me  you  were  quite  well,  men- 
tally; but  I  am  constrained  to  think  that  they 
are  mistaken,  and    that  you  are  a  lunatic.     I 

39^ 


w 


■M 


e,i 


By    H^ay  of    the    JVildcrncss. 

have  always  wanted  a  brother,  but  not  at  the 
expense  of  being  married.  If  you  fancy  me 
engaged  to  —  to  any  one,  there  was  never  a 
more  ridiculous  mistake." 

He  had  been  sitting  just  opposite  to  her; 
he  suddenly  drew  his  chair  nearer,  and  his 
voice  dropped  lower.  Aunt  Crete  could  not 
catch  even  a  syllable.  She  and  Mrs.  Wilmer 
talked  and  talked.  Aunt  Crete  went  over,  in 
what  detail  she  could,  the  story  of  the  peril, 
and  the  rescue,  and  the  battle  waged  so  fiercely 
and  so  long  with  death.  She  had  a  fascinated 
listener  and  told  her  story  well ;  but  most 
stories  reach  a  period  at  last.  Hers  did.  The 
story  being  told  in  chapters,  over  in  the  other 
corner  of  the  room,  by  two  authors,  seemed  to 
have  no  periods  :  it  went  on  and  on  ! 

Aunt  Crete  tried  to  talk  commonplaces  to 
Mrs.  Wilmer,  and  failed ;  and  looked  surrep- 
titiously at  her  watch.  Her  eyes  served  her 
better  than  her  ears.  Over  in  the  corner  she 
saw  Wayne  take  from  the  pocket  of  his  private 
diary  a  little  wizened  specimen  of  a  worn-out 
rosebud  and  show  it  to  Enid  as  though  it 
v/ere  a  diamond. 

"Pity's  sake!"  she  said  to  herself;  "and 
the  vase  almost  under  his  nose  is  full  of  roses 
that  were  gathered  to-day." 

Suddenly  she  looked  at  the  waiting  mother. 

"  There's  more  than  one  kind  of  wilderness," 


TICSS. 

at  the 
icv  I'ne 
lever   a 

to  her; 
Liid    his 
Lild  not 
Wihiier 
3ver,  in 
le  peril, 
fiercely 
scinated 
at   most 
d.     The 
le  other 
emed  to 

(laces  to 

surrep- 

ved  her 

ner  she 

private 

/orn-out 

lOUgh   it 

"  and 
of  roses 

■mother, 
erness," 


^^IVay  that  they  know  notT 

she  said.  "  That  boy  of  mine  has  been  floin- 
dering  through  some  of  them  for  years.  There 
is  one  verse  in  the  Bible  that  if  I've  thought 
of  on^.:e  I  suppose  I  have  a  hundred  times  in 
the  last  few  weeks  :  'And  thou  shalt  remember 
all  the  way  which  the  Lord  thy  God  hath  led 
thee,  these  forty  years  in  the  wilderness,  that 
he  might  humble  thee,  to  prove  thee,  to  know 
what  was  in  thine  heart,  whether  thou  wouldst 
keep  his  commandments  or  not.'  Wayne  has 
been  tried,  and  he's  kept  the  Lord  waiting  a 
good  while ;  but  you  know  there's  that  other 
verse:  *  The  Lord  thy  God  bringeth  thee  into 
a  good  land,  a  land  of  brooks  of  water,  of 
fountains  and  depths,  springing  forth  into  val- 
leys and  hills.'  I  do  hope  the  boy  has  got  out 
of  the  terrible  wilderness,  and  where  he  can 
cultivate  a  few  roses  at  last ;  but  he  won't  enjoy  it 
—  not  a  mite^  unless  he  can  have  Eve  with  him." 

The  mother  smiled,  a  high,  sweet,  self-abne- 
gating smile,  such  as  only  mothers  can,  as  she 
said :  — 

"  I  have  a  few  treasures  so  precious  that  I 
dare  not  even  try  to  care  for  them  myself; 
I  have  to  trust  them  entirely  to  the  Lord's 
keeping." 

A  few  days  thereafter,  Wayne  received  a 
letter  from  his  father,  one  paragraph  of  which 
ran  thus :  — 

"  By  the  way,  my  boy,  I  do  not  suppose  it 

393 


By    ft^(jy  of  the    JVildcrncss, 


i" 


:       i 


!    1 ;  I 


will  make  any  difference  to  you,  hut  1  want  to 
set  right  a  piece  of  news  that  I  gave  you. 
Leon,  in  writing  to  his  mother  ahout  his  ap- 
proaching marriage,  was  careless,  as  he  generally 
is,  and  gave  her  an  utterly  wrong  impression. 
7'he  chosen  one  is  the  daughter  of  an  old 
schoolmate,  hut  it  appears  not  /l>e  schoolmate 
that  his  mother  had  supposed  and  hoped  for. 
It  is  a  Miss  Gatewood,  1  believe;  a  very 
charming  young  woman  if  we  mav  take  Leon's 
judgment,  and  we  can  only  hope  for  the  best." 

Having  reached  as  far  as  this,  Wayne 
dropped  the  letter,  bowed  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  lost  himself  in  a  maze  of  thought. 
Suppose  his  father  had  not  misunderstood,  and 
he  had  not  been  led  to  fight  that  battle  with  his 
enemy,  and  come  off  victor,  and  understand  God 
as  he  never  had  before,  what  then  ?  But  why 
"  suppose  "  anything  ?      Did  not  God  know  ^ 

"  Aunt  Crete,"  he  said,  when  he  went  to 
carry  her  the  letter,  "  you  are  always  finding 
Bible  verses  that  are  not  in  other  people's 
Bibles;  do  you  know,  I  have  found  one  now 
that  I  cannot  think  has  been  even  in  yours  all 
these  years.  Aunt  Crete,  I  have  lived  it,  and 
I  know  it  is  true.  Listen  :  '  I  will  bring  the 
blind  by  a  way  that  they  know  not ;  in  paths 
that  they  know  not  will  I  lead  them.  I  will 
make  darkness  light  before  them,  and  crooked 
places  straight.' " 

394 


'mess. 


want  to 

ive   vou. 

his  ap- 

jjenerallv 
pressioii. 

an  old 
loolmate 
iped  for. 

a  very 
I  Leon's 
le  best." 

Wayne 

in  his 
thought. 
3od, and 
with  his 
ind  God 
3ut  why 
enow  ? 
went   to 

finding 
people's 
ne  now 
ours  all 
'  it,  and 
'ing  the 
n  paths 
J  will 
:rooked 


